


Only Human

by psychosomatic86



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shadow of Israphel, Torture, Yoglabs, content/character tags to be amended/added as fic progresses, gratuitous innuendo, guess those were needed amidst all that other jazz yeet!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: When Honeydew finds himself in Yoglabs sans memory beyond his own name, a full scale investigation incites the higher ups to discovering how such an anomalous fluke could have occurred. And although Honeydew's presence may just prove more issue than it's worth, it will take a lot more than that to deter the brilliant minds of Yoglabs from getting to the bottom of this.Oh! There's his best friend, too. Of course Honeydew remembers him. He could never forget Xephos.





	1. Welcome to Yoglabs!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slytherintbh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/gifts).



> Allow me to preface this by saying I am by no conceivable stretch one of The Cool Kids. What that roughly translates to is my gf has been an og Yogscast stan and fell Hard back into them about a month ago with Yoglabs. Being the supportive lass I am, I gave it a go, and long story short have fallen head over heels down the rabbit whole of this ridiculous video game company. SOI basically murdered me emotionally, and so I wanted to see if I couldn't contribute something to let out all these *clenches fist* Emotions. That is to say I do not intend any kindness in this fic, if you think there is, you are being misled, and it's all my fault. I love Honeydew and Xephos, but I love hurting them more :)

\- and then he wakes up, a process that feels much too gradual, too lacking of a very necessary immediacy, though he cannot discern why this is, just _feels_ it to his very being, a displacement, a wrongness. By increments, by seconds, he feels other things. Liquid. All around him. Water? No, too thick. Oh he cannot breathe. Burning. In his lungs. He cannot breathe because of the liquid, and he feels this very, _very_ much. He thrashes, fists swiping languid arcs through the liquid, reaching for contact. They find it, cold and smooth. Glass. In front of him. To the sides. Around him. He is inside glass full of viscous liquid and he cannot breathe and this will certainly cause him to drown.

 

Panic, he is rife with it, stung at each nerve with the _immediacy_ for air, for escape. Sacrificing precious oxygen, he diverts all energy to his fists and feet, kicking and bashing and beating at the barrier in front of him. Such precious seconds expire, and then, amidst the torrential splashing and gurgling rends the melodic _scint!_ of breaking glass, and two more swift blows with his aching knuckles send the glass to splinters and his person pitching forward with the gushing liquid, out of his imprisonment to land prone on a cold, tile floor. A persistent sound blooms rhythmic in his distant hearing. It is a red sound.

 

Minutes, now, in which he heaves up a stomachful of the liquid to the tune of the persistent, red sound. It slimes through his mouth, his teeth, tasting of nothing, and he wretches until bile singes the back of his throat. More minutes as he lays there, face down on the cold, tile floor, drawing long, agonized breaths, his chest sharp with each inhale, dull on the exhale. He hurts. He _hurts_.

 

“Shit,” he eventually curses, when words find him.

 

 _Red, red, red, red,_ beats the persistent sound around him, louder now.

 

“Shit,” he says again, when he realizes it’s an alarm.

 

Struggling to push himself upright, he manages into an approximate sitting position, hissing through his teeth as his head whirls in elliptical agonies. More seconds, deep, steady breathing in time to the alarm, until finally he can open his eyes without threat of the world vaulting from his vision.

 

It is a strange world, a room lit by vicious fluorescents, but all he can make sense of is the tile floor (slowly drying as the fluid around him drains into several strategic grates). The rest confounds him. A bank of computers sits at the wall to his right, their pale blue screens scrolling through seeming miles of code. Something twinges at the back of his mind when he sees this, a foreign familiarity, but the alarm makes it impossible to grasp a coherent thought, and he has more pressing matters to deal with anyway.

 

Hastily surveying the rest of the room reveals medical equipment of ambiguous nature neatly clustered along the left wall. In front of him is a door without hinges and a silver panel with glowing numbers beside it. And then, behind him, the remains of his prison, an expansive cylinder of glass twice as tall as it is wide, dripping green fluid from the edges of the jagged shards punctured outward from his escape. Sinister coils of tubing drape down the back of the cylinder, drizzling droplets of a mucousy substance he has neither the effort nor desire to identify.

 

 _Red, red, red,_ persists the alarm, and his head pounds with it, body and mind suffused with _too much_ , and he can do little else but curl back in on himself. Distantly, he realizes he is naked, and a faint laugh burbles up from the burdens in his chest, but the sound falls immediately short, dead, on the cold, tile floor.

 

_Christ, what the hell is going on._

 

As if by summons of his thoughts, the alarm cuts to silence, followed by the sigh of pressurized air releasing and the heavy fall of footsteps. And then -

 

“Fuck.”

 

It is not a voice he recognizes, but he hasn’t the strength to lift his head and see who it belongs to, so he stays stock still, frozen in anticipation.

 

“Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” repeats the voice. “Christ, can you hear me?”

 

A pause, the footsteps shuffle, glass skitters on the tile.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ - what did you _do_ , Simon.”

 

_The hell’s Simon?_

 

Hands, now, prodding at him, finding their grip at his shoulders, hauling him precariously upright, and he looks into the face a man he has never seen before, frenetic in every regard from the flitting grey eyes to the explosion of blonde hair sticking out in every conceivable direction. In this hair nests a pair of goggles, his person swathed in a billowing white coat, and he wears a harried exhaustion at the hollows in his cheeks. A scientist, then.

 

“Can. You. Hear. Me,” the scientist says slowly.

 

He nods.

 

“Do you know where you are?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Do you know who you are?”

 

He struggles to parse the question, racking his reeling mind. Several beats elapse until at last, clarity sparks.

 

“Y-yes. I’m - I’m Honeydew.”

 

Relief unburdens the worry lines suturing the scientist’s eyebrows and he says, “That’s right. Yes, you’re Simon Honeydew.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re Simon Honeydew,” repeats the scientist.

 

Honeydew shakes his head, tries to pull away from the scientist’s grip.

 

“No - no I’m _Honeydew_.”

 

The scientist’s face falls.

 

“You’re not Simon?”

 

“Who the bloody hell’s _Simon_?”

 

Confusion flourishes to outright panic in the scientist’s eyes, and he lets go Honeydew’s left shoulder, dithering a short spell before frantically pressing his hand to his ear.

 

“Uhm… Lewis? I need you. Yes, right _bloody_ fucking _now_. I fucked up, I really fucked up, okay? Don’t fucking - just get down here. Sub six, uh, fuck, uh I can’t remember, it’s at the end of the west hall. Just fucking do it!”

 

The scientist lowers his hand, visibly shaking, and when he takes hold of Honeydew’s shoulder again, his palm has gone clammy.

 

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” He says, but the quaver in his voice belies any sincerity.

 

“Who are you?” Honeydew asks meekly.

 

“I’m… that’s not important right now,” the scientist replies, and shrugs out of his coat, wrapping it around Honeydew’s shivering form. “Lewis’ll explain everything, okay? This is just… a lot right now, but you’re gonna be okay.”

 

This instills even less confidence in Honeydew, but he can only wait for whatever confusing horror is next to befall him, so he clutches the coat tighter about himself and buries his chin against his bare chest. Rivulets of the green liquid ooze through the tangles of his beard, and it squelches against his skin, but there is safety in smallness, and there is too much - too _goddamn_ much - happening to be anything else but as helplessly diminutive as possible. Because maybe that will make this all go away. Maybe he will wake up from whatever nightmare this is.

 

“Eh, er, okay,” says the scientist. “I’m just gonna, uh, be right here, but _ah_ ! _Shit_!”

 

Honeydew flinches, but the exclamation is not directed at him. Peering up, he spies the scientist hastening to his feet, hand pressed again to his ear.

 

“You don’t need to fucking yell! Don’t get smart, this’s much your fault - no, no sub _six_. Hold on.”

 

He makes for the door, taps a pattern to the silver number pad, and it slides open with a rush of air. The scientist peers around to the right and mumbles “six G” into his earpiece before cloistering himself back in the room and prompting the door shut.

 

“Er, Simon’s not with you is he?”

 

Again, this Simon person. Honeydew listens intently.

 

“No just, make sure - good. No I - _Christ_ , Lewis, you’ll _see_ , just get the fuck down here already, alright?

 

“Bloody lucky I’m letting you know at all,” the scientist mumbles after he’s let go his ear.

 

Glancing down, he catches Honeydew watching him, and his expression tightens.

 

“Er, don’t - don’t worry about that. Lewis is great. He’ll sort this out I… I promise.”

 

Sighing long and low and defeated, the scientist slumps against the door, kneading his fingers into his eyes. Honeydew says nothing, not for lack of having anything _to_ say, but because he’s afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll either start crying or screaming. Whichever best suits his frustrations, really, and there are many.

 

But there is also hope. The scientist, although an apparent ball of agitation, doesn’t seem keen on hurting him, and he clearly wants the situation sorted as desperately as Honeydew. This ‘Lewis’ person, however, he hasn’t a clue what to expect. Or well, he does, somewhat, if the heated conversation between him and the scientist is any indication. He just doesn’t want to be hurt. God, _please_ , don’t let there be anymore pain.

 

A queerness overtakes him at the spontaneity of this thought, but before Honeydew can make sense of it, the door exhales, startling the scientist still leaning against it, slides open, and there, stood just on the verge of imposing but for his inept lankiness and a ridiculously overzealous lab coat draped from shoulder to shoe, is someone Honeydew recognizes.

 

“You’ve got about three seconds to tell me what the hell’s going on, before I -”

 

Xephos’s vitriolic rant falls silent as he looks down at Honeydew.

 

“Lalna,” he says calmly, not taking his eyes off Honeydew. “Would you mind explaining what Simon’s doing here? Specifically why, oh y’know, he’s naked and covered in slime?”

 

Raking his gaze upwards from Honeydew’s, Xephos smiles at the scientist, and the air in the room goes decidedly palpable with an astringent electricity. It prompts gooseflesh down Honeydew’s spine and halts any musings of Xephos’s strange behavior beyond “ _Oh fuck, he’s pissed_.”

 

“Ah-hah yeah so here’s the thing, Lewis,” stammers the scientist (Lalna, Honeydew pieces together), hands a blur as he pantomimes his excuses. “That’s, uh, that’s not Simon.”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“I - I just wanted to see - because Janus is the most important endeavor we’ve - and I was so excited so I used Simon’s sample - but then - ”

 

It takes naught but a raised hand for Xephos to effectively silence Lalna.

 

“So to summarize whatever bullshit you just spewed,” he says. “You flouted protocol and initiated Project Janus without my or Simon’s approval?”

 

“The long and short of it?” Lalna squeaks.

 

“And only now that something has gone _horrendously_ awry,” Xephos continues, waging a step forward that has Lalna stumbling several backwards, nearly tripping over Honeydew in the process. “Only _now_ , did you feel the need to let me in on this little sedition of yours?”

 

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it!” Lalna protests. “I just got excited and thought, okay, I’ve got some materials, I’ll just try out the first few stages and see what happens.”

 

“And how many times did you _just try it out_ , Lalna?”

 

The scientist goes quiet, and Xephos laughs, a bitter and triumphant sound.

 

“See, that’s your problem,” he continues. “You get obsessed, and then _I’m_ the one who has to clean up your messes. We’re trying to run a goddamn facility here, man! I can’t keep covering for every test tube abomination you want to make a pet!”

 

“Hey!” Honeydew blurts out. Waking up sans cohesive memory in a strange, sciencey place full of people who keep claiming he’s someone he’s _not_ is all well and good, but no one insults him like that and gets away with it. Least of all Xephos.

 

“Ah, yes, sorry Si - er - well that’s just wrong isn’t it.” Xephos looks down at Honeydew and spreads his hands in a hapless gesture. “See, Dr. Jones here is an absolute twat sometimes, and that really gets on the nerves, y’know? Nothing personal against you, of course.”

 

When his flippant humor falls flat, Xephos adopts a less aloof manner, crouching down to eye level with Honeydew.

 

“So I take it you’re not Simon Honeydew, huh, friend?”

 

Finally, they’re getting somewhere.

 

“Honeydew? Yes. Simon? Dunno who you’re on about, mate.”

 

“I see,” says Xephos, and, despite the still damp floor, sits down crossed legged, his posture lax, his smile genuine. “Well, seems we’re at a bit of an impasse then, because I know a Simon Honeydew, and he looks and sounds exactly like you.”

 

“Great bloke then, eh?” Honeydew says with a small smile, and Xephos’s grin lights up his whole face.

 

“Oh, the absolute best.”

 

A simmering warmth glows to life in Honeydew’s stomach, overcoming him with the urge to grab Xephos and hug him for an eternity. After all, they have been friends for so long. Right? Yes, yes they have. Christ, he can’t remember any specifics, but he _knows_ to his very core that they know each other, that they are best friends. But how to broach that when Xephos thinks he’s someone else...

 

“Um, a-another thing,” he tries, testing the waters of his restraint, trying to keep from blathering out utter nonsense. “Well I - I do uh…”

 

“Take your time,” says Xephos.

 

“Well, I do know you, Xeph. Or at least, I remember - er - no think I…”

 

His head proves a fantastic muddle.

 

“You know me?” Xephos parrots. “Me, Lewis Xephos, co-founder and CEO of Yoglabs. Is that who you know?”

 

Honeydew blinks a few times, letting the information settle. Seems his brain is stuck on lag at present, but after a good thirty seconds of silent pondering, this new information neither supplements his own nor instigates recollection of anything else. He shakes his head.

 

“I know I’m Honeydew,” he says, “and you’re Xephos. I know Xephos.”

 

“But not _Lewis_ Xephos, co-founder and CEO of Yoglabs,” Xephos iterates.

 

“Uhhhhh ‘parently not.”

 

“Well,” Xephos says, and lets the silence peter in, chewing the knuckle of his right thumb as he is wont to when perplexed.

 

 _He always does that,_ Honeydew thinks. _How is this not Xephos_?

 

“Well, isn’t this just about the most _interesting_ conundrum, eh, Lalna!” Not-Xephos abruptly announces, startling Honeydew and the scientist in question who had been making himself scarce by the computers.

 

“Uh, er, y-yeah?”

 

Were it possible for Lalna to shrink further into himself as Xephos stands and approaches him, he would surely collapse into a singularity of anxiety. Admittedly, Honeydew wouldn’t half mind seeing such a thing occur. This whole predicament is, after all, and so far as he has gleaned, Lalna’s fault. It’s an easy grudge to harbour, too, easier than sifting through the implications of waking up sans cohesive memory in a strange, sciencey place full of people who think he’s someone he’s not - well, _thought_.

 

“I’ll be sending some testificates down to help you clean this up,” Xephos says, looming over Lalna. “Then, after I’ve seen Honeydew to a shower and some proper clothes, we’re gonna have a good, long chat, yeah? Call an impromptu board meeting, shall we?”

 

“O-of course,” Lalna replies, voice gone to an undignified pitch.

 

“Excellent! Now, Honeydew,” Xephos spins on his heel and proffers a hand. “If you would please come with me, we’ll get you out of that, er… _that_ stuff, and then we’ll get to the bottom of this _most_ interesting conundrum.”

 

“Well I’m glad _you’re_ so chipper about it,” Honeydew grumbles, and the laugh it earns from Xephos fills him with an indescribable calm. Despite everything, his friend can still make everything better, even if he _technically_ isn’t Xephos. Or is Xephos. Lewis. Whatever.

 

“We’ve got some brilliant minds here at Yoglabs, friend,” Xephos says as he helps Honeydew to his feet  “We’ll have this sorted in no time. Wow,” he pauses as he taps on the silver pad affixed by the door, “that feels weird to say, because it’s like I’m talking to Simon who _knows_ all this already and -”

 

He pauses again when they’ve exited into a long stretch of hallway, letting the door _hssssh!_ shut behind them.

 

“I’m uh, babbling a bit huh.”

 

“Ya think?” Quips Honeydew, not that he minds. Even in what little he recalls of Xephos, he knows - just as he knows his own name - that his friend is prone to lengthy rants of no particular bearing. Honeydew also knows he finds it most endearing.

 

“I’ll shut up then,” Xephos says, and promptly does not as they walk down the hallway.

 

“Christ knows we’re gonna be doing a _lot_ of talking soon enough,” he says. “You’ll have to meet Simon, er, yourself, ehm, oh we’ll work it out. And lucky you ending up in the most prestigious research facility in, well, maybe one day I’ll get to say the world, but we haven’t taken over quite yet.”

 

“Why would you say that?” Honeydew inquires of no especial volition, and Xephos laughs so hard he nearly trips over himself.

 

“Th’ hell’s so funny?” Honeydew demands, flushed at the cheeks.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” Xephos waves a dismissive hand, but won’t stop smiling. “You just sounded like Simon for a moment, which of course you _would_ but - ”

 

“Is that a bad thing?” Honeydew interrupts.

 

“Of course not! Don’t worry about it, friend, it’s just been a weird day.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Honeydew grumbles, pulling Lalna’s lab coat tighter at his waist.

 

He keeps neglecting the fact he’s naked and covered in vague, green slime, although, all things considered, it’s not the most impressive thing he’s forgotten - at least he assumes as much.

 

“So, er, this place,” he says to keep his mind from wandering to unpleasantries and paranoias. “Labs something or other? Whaddya do here, Xeph.”

 

“Ah, well - it’s Yoglabs by the way - we’re a pinnacle of scientific research! We employ the best and brightest. Anything you can envisage, we can probably see it to fruition!”

 

Xephos’s spiel concludes as they reach the single elevator at the end of hall, and Xephos swipes his thumb over a small scanner, turning it a lavender hue before a soft _ding!_ resonates and the doors slide soundlessly open.

 

“This stop on a super impressive floor,” Honeydew asks as they step inside. “Some kinda balcony looking out over all your… industry or whatever?”

 

“Uh, level three I believe, yes.”

 

“You wanna try that again,” Honeydew suggests. “Your whole pizazz shtick and you can do some like, jazz hands as the doors open?”

 

If elation could kill, Honeydew would be in the ground from his friend’s enthusiasm, and after finding his breath from another bout of laughter, Xephos says, “I like the way you think, friend,” and hits the button marked ‘3’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit of a tentative chapter. Probably definitely gonna come back to edit it as my outline gains footing, but I'm pretty satisfied for now, so I thought I'd throw it into the void. Do please let me know if you liked it! My life blood is comments :>


	2. A Very Impromptu Board Meeting

Really, there should be an award for ‘keeping one’s shit immaculately composed when your coworker grows a rogue clone and that clone apparently can only recall its own name - wait, no, _your’s_ too, for fuck knows _what_ reason’.

 

Gin also suffices, and Lewis has more than enough in his office, so as soon as he’s settled the clone into the call room on Level 3 (after letting it have a quick look from the observation balcony above the main atrium), he checks the security camera is trained on the bathroom door then jams the scanpad so no one can leave or enter and makes a beeline for the elevator and his office on Level 9. By the time he arrives, his hands are shaking so hard that he forgoes entirely the bother of a glass and swigs straight from the bottle.

 

“ _Nn-fuck_ ,” he gasps after two, large swallows, bracing himself against his desk, shoulders hunched and his head hung between them.

 

He takes another drink.

 

“ _Hhhah,_ okay, okay.”

 

And another. By the sixth, a pleasant dizziness slurs his pulse, and the roar of shock in his ears subsides to a hum. Stumbling round the desk, he sprawls into his chair - his trousers, damp from the vitro fluid, pressing most hideously against his skin - and ventures a seventh sip. Finally, the ninth has him on the proverbial cloud, and he can think properly without threat of his rationality collapsing under the weight of _whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck._

 

“So. Lalna’s screwed everything up,” he muses, grounding the situation at its origin. “And it’s only - ” he looks at his watch, “- nine fucking thirteen. Well that’s brilliant.”

 

He raises the bottle of gin and rolls the mouth of it against his chin as he thinks aloud.

 

“S’clearly not Simon, so… maybe cognition needs longer to develop separate from the body - or, or Lalna just put in fucking _surnames_.”

 

Because the clone knows Xephos, but not Lewis.

 

“But it acts _just_ like him… But it’s _not_ , but - ”

 

He groans and drags his free hand down his face, takes another too large swallow of gin.

 

“Maybe shouldn’t call it _it_ . Him it. _Whatever_.”

 

Realizing he’s been stewing for nearly ten minutes and neglected to check on the clone or request Lalna’s promised testificates, he addresses the former by prompting his computer from sleep and pulls up the security feed for the call room. It’s a damn good thing they upgraded to HD last year as Lewis’s vision has gone a bit unreliable from the gin. Still, all he sees is the closed bathroom door, although a fair amount of steam eeks from the frame. Regrettably, sound had been declared a breach of employee privacy, so Lewis can’t hear if the clone possesses Simon’s penchant for abysmal scrub brush operatics.

 

“Bollocks he need clothes,” Lewis sighs, knowing full well the only place he’s going to find anything that fits.

 

Wobbling from his chair, he takes a second to breathe before making from the office for his and Simon’s apartment on the top floor. Another convenient coincidence, that, though they had initially considered a place off the lab’s premises. However, the lab’s frequent mishaps of varying severity quashed the idea, so the two sacrificed a rather adorable cottage to be at the beck and call of their livelihood.

 

On his way to the elevator, he bumps into a frazzled testificate, recalling him to the problem of Lalna, but the poor testificate really does look busy, and what kind of boss would he be to demand so much of them? Lalna could do to grovel in his slime, anyway, an image that brings Lewis no small amount of satisfaction, and he steps into the elevator and requests the private floor with just a bit more verve.

 

The elevator delivers him directly into the apartment, and he exits silently from the foyer into the living room, a needless precaution as Simon’s snores still issue loud and nasally from the bedroom.

 

“The little things,” Lewis tells himself quietly, and pads in that direction.

 

Their closet situates far enough from the bed that Lewis can take some effort to properly root through Honeydew’s hoard of clothes, which is amusing in its own right. For someone who so vehemently refused to wear a shirt when they first founded the lab (and especially when Lewis suggested perhaps dressing more to impress potential investors), the dwarf has amassed quite the collection of business casuals. From it, Lewis selects his least favorite button down (mustard is such a useless color) and a more worn pair of trousers. For himself, he finds the similarly dingy grey slacks reserved for days of especial messy tests, and changes in record speed, doesn’t even bother removing his shoes.

 

“Should do it,” he mutters, successfully sneaking from the room, though not before sparing Simon (sprawled in a tangle of sheets) a small smile and shake of the head.

 

“I’ll sort this, friend,” he says - as much to himself as Simon - as he requests the elevator. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

 

If only such reassurances could properly console, and he returns to Level 3 with a bruising trepidation cinched around his ribs. Unjamming the scanpad of the call room and locking it again when he’s slipped through, his previous suspicions are laid to rest. The clone isn’t singing. Really it’s a tenuous fact to lay the foundations of what certainly will be a lengthy investigation, but it’s proof where otherwise he’s had very little, proof that this clone isn’t Simon. At least, he isn’t Simon when it comes to singing in the shower.

 

His roundabout thoughts starting to irritate him, Lewis peels himself from the door and perches in one of the chairs in the lounge space. It’s not a room designed for comfort, just a place for testificates to catch an hour or two of sleep or refresh themselves on graveyard shifts, but is good enough for stashing clones, so he’s taking positives where he can find them.

 

“Er, um, Lewis?”

 

The sound of Lalna’s voice startles him, and he claps a hand to the comm piece in his ear.

 

“ _What_ ,” he snaps, and can hear Lalna recoiling as he replies.

 

“Just uh… wondering how’s it going, and, erm, if I’m gonna get those testificates?”

 

“Having troubles, friend?” Lewis snorts, “Can’t imagine how that feels.”

 

“Christ, Lewis,” Lalna has the audacity to sound exasperated, “y’think I don’t know I fucked up? I get it, okay? But being a twat about it isn’t gonna clean up this goddamn mess.”

 

Nibbling at his thumb, Lewis goes quiet, smirking when after 15 solid seconds of silence Lalna tries again, tail between his legs.

 

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t - I knew the risks, and I know you were really excited about Janus, and I just wanted everything to be perfect, and I let it get out of hand, and - ”

 

“You sure fucking did, friend,” Lewis interrupts. “Just let’s be glad he didn’t turn out to be some manky brained coat hanger abortion.”

 

The static of the comm fizzles dull and heavy between them, and even Lewis can attest to the bad taste that left in his mouth. That and the gin, which he immediately blames the outbursts on.

 

“I - “

 

“Hope you didn’t mean that,” Lalna finishes for him. “Because that’s basically Simon you’re on about.”

 

“Yeah, just put that together.”

 

Another beat.

 

“Just trying not to implode from stress,” Lewis continues, less bite to his tone, and Lalna’s own is pitying when he replies.

 

“We’ll figure this out - _I_ will I mean - or uh…”

 

“As if I’d let you within an inch of this on your own, Jones. No bloody way.”

 

“Then how about those testificates.”

 

“Yeah yeah, fuck off the line and I’ll get them.”

 

“Tha-.”

 

Lewis cuts the line. His anger is miles from assuaged, so the less he talks to Lalna the better. Connecting to the main desk, he tells the secretary to send a two-person team down to sub 6 which is not nearly suitable for the job, but Lalna hasn’t clearance to request more (not after the “fusing incident”), and even he has enough self preservation to not press the issue,

 

“The little things,” Lewis reminds himself.

 

Little do they help when the shower turns off and the clone emerges in an oversized towel from the bathroom looking all the more like Simon now he’s no longer coated in vitro fluid - his beard as wiry orange, his physique as bulky and muscular. If he ever forgives Lalna, Lewis will certainly have to commend him on such impeccable anatomy. Presently, however, it unnerves him a great deal, the only distinguishing factor between Simon and this clone the lost expression he wears as he looks around the lounge, anywhere, it seems, but at Lewis.

 

“Think I uh, thought I was dreaming,” he says at last, settling his gaze at his feet. “Shower sorta woke me up and got me realizing that um…”

 

Grappling for words, his eyebrows furrow, mustache drooping in a contemplative frown, and for a brief, horrifying, gin-induced moment, Lewis is tempted to consider if speech centers are awry in the clone’s brain and whether that might warrant disposal under guise of surgery or tests or _something_.

 

“Well, Xeph - er - _Lewis_ \- sorry -” the clone tries again. “Just kinda hit me I literally don’t know who I am ‘sides my name, or who you are ‘sides your name, and that we’re supposed to be best friends or something like that, and it’s really starting to fuck with me. So, sorry if I go into total meltdown or something, but… yeah. Permission to put me under if that happens.”

 

The clone attempts a laugh, but it resonates scared and bewildered, and Lewis’s stomach plummets with well deserved nausea.

 

“We’re not going to do anything like that, friend,” he says, swallowing the cincture in his throat. “I - I don’t know what’s happening, and I’ll admit right now I just downed about half a bottle of gin because _what the fuck,_  but we - we solve problems here. We look for the best solutions.”

 

The clone sniffles and rubs the gathering tears from his eyes, and Lewis battles the impulse to hug him. He looks so very much like Simon.

 

“We’ll figure this out, Honeydew,” he says quietly. “I promise.”

 

“Thanks - uh - Lewis,” Honeydew murmurs.

 

“And if - if it helps,” Lewis adds. “You can call me Xephos.”

 

Honeydew finally looks up from the floor, his sadness warring with the makings of a smile.

 

“Think it would,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

“No problem, friend.”

 

Honeydew huffs a small breath of air, something of a laugh, and Lewis raises an eyebrow.

 

“Nothing,” Honeydew says when he catches the look. “Just realized you - uh - Xephos - the one I know - _knew_ \- uh…” He trails off to gather his words and tries again. “He calls me that, too.”

 

“Huh,” Lewis says, storing the information for later discussion with Lalna. “Well that’s something where we’ve had nothing so far.”

 

“Guess so,” Honeydew agrees.

 

“Oh but, here, I brought you some clothes,” Lewis offers over the shirt and trousers. “Should fit just fine.”

 

“Ah. Thanks.”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

“I just,” Honeydew holds the button down at arms length, considering it with a moue of distaste. “Don’t like shirts that much.”

 

Lewis cracks a small smile. “No, suppose you wouldn’t. But we have casual Fridays, friend.”

 

“Fair enough,” Honeydew concedes. “Nice color, though.”

 

Lewis fairly snorts, the ease and familiarity of the conversation somewhat chastening his apprehensions. The bitter buzz from the gin has begun to dissipate, too, and he instructs himself through several, grounding breaths as Honeydew returns to the bathroom to change. Briefly, Lewis considers updating Lalna on the situation, but decides against it until he’s established something more concrete with Honeydew, whatever the hell that may be. They can’t just hole up in this call room, either. His top priority, really, should be getting Honeydew to Lalna’s lab and hooked up to every possible relevant device covering the spectrum of “what the fuck” mishaps, but something about the idea of forcing Honeydew through such an ordeal after the one already transpired sits sour at the back of his mind.

 

But then he is just a clone.

 

But he _isn’t_.

 

Christ this would be a lot easier if Honeydew were stark raving mad. It’s so _tricky_ when ethical quandaries are involved.

 

“How’s it look?” Honeydew returns from the bathroom, interrupting Lewis’s mental game of “what if” ping-pong.

 

“Oh, uh,” Lewis eyes him over, gaze lingering when he sees that Honeydew has - similar to Simon’s habit - left the top two buttons of the shirt undone. “You look fine, friend,” he manages, and means it, but all these tiny details are starting to overwhelm him.

 

He needs someone else handling this with him, needs Simon and Lalna and then afterwards, a gin and tonic with a _lot_ of lime.

 

“You alright there?”

 

Standing and making his way over to Honeydew, Lewis places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it, doing his best to contain his wonderment at how warm and solid the clone is - how real he is. This is all so viscerally _real._

 

“I’m alright,” he says.

 

“I don’t know a lot right now,” Honeydew says, placing his own hand over Lewis’s. “But I know when you’re lying.”

 

“No illusions then?”

 

“Xeph, I just busted my way out of some science chamber and I dunno _owt_ about it or anything. Don’t think there’s a lot else to top it in terms’a secrets or whatever.”

 

Lewis smiles and retrieves his hand from Honeydew’s lax grip.

 

“Good,” he says, “then let’s be not alright in the breakroom, and get some coffee for bloody’s sake.”

 

Honeydew perks up considerably. “Ohhh, I like the sound’a that.”

 

“And Lalna should be done soon and then -”

 

“You’ll strap me to a table and go at me with scalpels?”

 

Xephos frowns as he presses his thumb to the scanpad and lets the door open for Honeydew. “I was going to say call Simon down and have a civil conversation about this all.” He can’t help what next slips out, “But I’m flexible.”

 

“Oof, I’m not,” Honeydew says. “Should give you no trouble tying me down, then.”

 

“Duly noted, friend,” Lewis replies, grateful for the levity.

 

The breakroom is Level 1, so Lewis steers them once more to the elevator.

 

“Ain’t I gonna get seen?” Honeydew asks, but Lewis waves away the worry.

 

“No one’s in there until lunch, and testificates aren’t prone to slacking off.”

 

“Test-what now?”

 

“My little worker bees,” Lewis explains. “Big noses, about yay high. Lab would be in a proper state without them, honestly.”

 

“Alright, cool. I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Honeydew says, letting the small talk taper off until they reach Level 1.

 

As promised, the hallway is deserted, and they arrive at the breakroom without issue where Lewis sets to work making drinks from the overly complicated coffee machine. It was his and Simon’s first ever pet project upon founding the lab, Simon curious to discover the resulting beverage concocted of coffee beans grown under duress of intermittent steroid injections. Despite all predicted horrors, the coffee was surprisingly tame, although it provided twenty times the amount of federally regulated caffeine. It also required processing of astounding magnitude, but the monstrous machine works just as well for regular brands, so Lewis prepares himself a triple shot espresso, Honeydew a decaf latte - Simon’s go to - and the final touch a plate of Simon’s favorite biscuits.

 

“You don’t happen to recall Jaffa cakes do you?” He asks, joining Honeydew at the corner table where he’s cloistered himself.

 

“Maybe?” Honeydew says, taking his latte from Lewis with careful hands. “I - I dunno but… Xe - uh - Lewis?”

 

Wary of a shift in atmosphere, Lewis provides Honeydew his full attention.

 

“Why… are you being so nice to me - about _this_. Shouldn’t you be quarantining me somewhere?”

 

Lewis deflates, but he refuses to lie.

 

“I won’t say I didn’t consider it at first,” he admits, hurriedly adding as Honeydew slumps in his chair, “but I’ve dealt with far weirder, and I just needed a bit to grasp the whole… _thing_ , as I’m sure you understand.”

 

“Then I’m sure _you_ understand I’m a pinky away from losing my grip,” Honeydew says.

 

Sighing, Lewis runs a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his head.

 

“Yes, I do. I - I suppose it’s more, I guess, would you rather panic now? Or have coffee and wait till we get some answers and _then_ panic.”

 

“I… well fair point,” Honeydew says, and sups at his coffee. “Yeah, no, this is good. You’re right, coffee first. And what are these?” He indicates the plate of biscuits. “Jabba cocks you called ’em? Sorry mate, he was kind of a twat. Oh hey! Pop culture! I know it!”

 

“No no, Ja- _Jaffa_ cakes, Honeydew,” Lewis says, wheezing with laughter. “Just - _holy_ _christ, friend_ \- here, try one.”

 

He does, retrieving one of the biscuits, his initial trepidation swiftly abandoned as he stuffs the whole thing in his mouth.

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says, chewing vigorously. “These are _incredible_.”

 

Lewis chuckles, leaning back in his chair as he watches Honeydew devour another.

 

“Thought you’d like them.”

 

“Mate, you can alien probe me all you want if you keep these coming.”

 

“Then you’ll be happy to know we’re opening a factory and distribution plant sometime next year. Simon’s idea of course.”

 

“What’s my idea?”

 

For a blissful second, Lewis thinks Honeydew has taken it upon himself to reveal a heretofore unmentioned talent of ventriloquism, but as he turns in bullet time to see Simon stood in the breakroom door - a steadily creeping confusion marring his placid, sleep addled smile - reality crushes Lewis’s shoulders anew with a weight to rival Atlas’s own burden.

 

“Uhhh…” Simon says before all three present lapse into a taut, expectant silence.

 

Lewis wobbles from his chair and starts toward him, but the static of the comm followed by Lalna’s voice in his ear halts him in his tracks.

 

“Don’t freak out,” the scientist prefaces timidly. “But I - I think we’ve got another problem.”

 

No one else can hear, of course, but it spurs Lewis from his shock straight into another, and he blurts out, “I can explain!” as Simon stares over his shoulder at Honeydew.

 

“Lewis,” he says at length. “Is that… me?”

 

“Er, not quite, mate!” Honeydew offers, a distinct tremble in his voice. “Weird story, this. Have some Jaffas and we’ll talk it over, yeah?”

 

“Lewis?” Lalna persists.

 

Calmly, Lewis raises his hand to his ear, hisses, “Would do to make yourself scarce, friend,” and shuts the comm off entirely.

 

“Ah, I get it,” Simon says, an air of calm supplanting his incredulity. “This Lalna’s fault? You’re never that pissed at anyone else, LewLew.”

 

“Simon, I - I was waiting until you were up to - uh…”

 

“Tell me I’ve got a twin?

 

“Not… exactly,” Lewis sighs.

 

“Well, it’s not the craziest thing Lalna’s done,” he says matter of factly. “So yeah, why not, let’s have us some Jaffas.”

 

Shuffling over, Simon takes Lewis’s hand and leads him back to the table, sees to it he’s sat without threat of toppling from the chair, and finally drags his own from the adjacent table and stations it beside Lewis.

 

“Alright, so you gonna tell me the hell’s going on?” He says. “Oh and maybe how you got my favorite shirt?”

 

Honeydew flings an accusing finger at Lewis. “His fault, mate, I’m just the poor bastard who woke up in this crazy shit place.”

 

“Yup,” Lewis says, elbows leant on the table, palms supporting his forehead as he nods his head. “S’all my fault, Simon.”

 

“Aw, c’mon now, angel,” Simon soothes, rubbing his back. “That’s not true. It’s Lalna’s - far as I can put together - so you just take your time, and I’ll share a few Jaffas with, ehm, myself, and everything’ll be great!”

 

“Mate, I dunno shit about myself,” Honeydew cuts in. “But if I’m supposed to be anything like you, then I won the personality lottery.”

 

“And handsomeness lottery, if I may add,” Simon does, in fact, add.

  
“Oh my bloody _head_ ,” Lewis groans and devolves into helpless, hiccuping laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with all the first few chapters, contents are vaguely tenuous and subject to editing bc I'm a trash child who has A Lot Of Plot Bits going on in my brain hole.
> 
> Also, the aforementioned gf surprised me (read: murdered me real good) with some cover art: https://welcometoyoglabs.tumblr.com/tagged/read-it-it%27s-good
> 
> I love her so much :’>


	3. The Other Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you to everyone who's left feedback yall are so lovely and make me so happy. Apologies this is so late, i had to work out a lot of stuff plot-wise and finals kicked my Ass. But here's abt 5k words to make up for that! Hope it's all making sense so far <3

“Yeah yeah, fuck off the line and I’ll get them.”

 

“Thanks,” Lalna says. The call turns to static in his ear before he finishes, so he adds, “you temperamental asshole,” to console himself.

 

Intending to further berate Lewis, he switches off the comm, doing so carefully what for his soiled gloves, though still a thick glob of vitro fluid slithers behind his ear. Shuddering, he rubs at it with his shoulder. When he succeeds only in smearing it further, he gives up, returning his efforts to taking stock of what little headway he’s made with cleaning.

 

There’s comfort to be found in the fact he’d sequestered the clone in this smaller lab; the chaos that could have resulted in the main one is not a mental image he’s eager to conceive. Of course the risk of Lewis’s unannounced visits deterred that from the beginning, so Lalna can’t cite impeccable foresight, either. Maybe if he hadn’t undertaken this at all… maybe then he could pat himself on the back, but as it stands - and as he stands in the inch of vitro fluid that refuses to yet drain around the destroyed chamber - hindsight amends very little.

 

“Christ what a waste,” he laments, loosening another precarious shard from the glass partition.

 

Gingerly, he sets it on the nearby stretcher along with the several chunks he’s already removed, a slow process thus far, but he needs to seal off the filtration tubes at the back of the chamber, and the clone didn’t have enough courtesy to bust a hole big enough for Lalna to fit through. Another stroke of luck, that - the glass. Plexi had reacted badly with the vitro fluid in his first trials, but had it not, the clone never could have escaped. That considered, Lalna supposes it might have done well for it to drown, at least then he wouldn’t be on Lewis’s shit list.

 

This he regrets above all else, his panic, his inability to gauge the situation, Lewis his ever reliable - and reliably bitchy - failsafe. High pressure situations are hardly Lalna’s forte, but had he spared even a moment to consider the repercussions -

 

A knock at the door followed by the familiar honking of testificates interrupts his pity party, and, divesting his gloves, Lalna prompts the door open.

 

“Oi, where’s the rest of you?” He demands of the two stood expectantly to his service.

 

Glancing about nervously, the testificates honk in confusion, shrinking away as Lalna sighs.

 

“Nevermind,” he says. “Just get in here. Start at the computers and don’t touch _anything_ ‘cept the floor.”

 

The testificates scurry past, dragging with them a small, clattering cart brimming with cleaning supplies, at once procuring macro-absorbent mops of Lalna’s own design and swabbing them across the floor with jittery movements. Their diligence satisfies Lalna, and he lets them alone to the task, returning to his own of the chamber.

 

“You bring a collapser?” He calls over his shoulder upon realizing the sharp mess on the stretcher threatens to topple.

 

An affirmative honk responds, and one of the testificates waddles over with the requested item, a small, amorphous blob of equally nebulous black material - another project Lalna is considerably proud of. Taking it, he molds it into a cube and sets it atop the mountain of shards, observing with fleeting amusement as the cube quivers, expands to cover every millimeter of glass, absorbs the entirety, and reverts to its nondescript shape all in under five seconds. Lewis can say what he wants, but he can’t deny Lalna’s brilliance.

 

“And last I heard everyone else only got to bloody _sheep_ ,” he grumbles to himself, returning to pulling shard after shard from the chamber and feeding it to the collapser. “I make a whole, functional dwarf, and suddenly _I’m_ a mad scientist.”

 

He continues his work and this one sided argument with his imagined Lewis, but just as he braces to mentally deliver a barrage of expletives, one of the testificates takes hold of his elbow and honks frantically.

 

“ _What_ ,” Lalna growls, expecting to put off the little bugger with his tone, but they barely flinch when he rounds on them.

 

Honking louder, they point at the computers across the room, their screens still droning columns of impregnable binary vomit - a result of the clone’s unceremonious escape having royally perturbed the sensors inside the chamber. Yet as Lalna looks closer, he realizes this isn’t what has caught the testificate’s eye. In fact, it’s what hasn’t, what isn’t there at all, for one of the screens has gone completely blank of its code deluge.

 

Trudging over, Lalna taps at its touchscreen, holds down its home key, all to no avail. It warrants more scrutiny, but what puzzles Lalna is the fact that all of them, this one included, had been more or less operational when he checked them after Lewis and the clones’ departure. Functional, that is, insofar as they currently are; he is not looking forward to backing up and rebooting them.

 

“Just get back to work,” Lalna dismisses the testificate stood beside him, his eyes glued to the screen, scouring every inch for an explanation.

 

“Wait, monitor three? Then this was - ” He stumbles over the dithering testificate as he hastens back to the chamber.

 

Ignoring the resulting indignant honks, he wrests a last, sizable chunk of glass from the chamber, effectively excavating enough room to accommodate a cautious and strategically contorted entrance inside.

 

“ _Three, three, three_ ,” he mutters, stood on his toes to survey the various sensor nodes positioned in a semicircle over the filtration tubes. “Ah, there y’are, little bugger.”

 

Gently prying out the node, he extricates himself from the chamber, shoves between the testificates, and delivers the node to the USB port in monitor 3. Several seconds elapse before a notification dings in the bottom right corner of the screen, and Lalna taps it, prompting open a window containing the past four months of collated data. Scrolling through, he stops at the last file, its timestamp labeled **_08:45:39:06_ **. As Lalna recalls, it took him all of five minutes to reach the lab from his main on sub 1. Mollifying the clone and Lewis was another ten or so, plus an added fifteen for his cleaning endeavors, so by these rudimentary calculations, he estimates the difference of the last recorded data set and the alarm to have occurred within three minutes of one another. This is not in the least suspect - he presumed as much - though what transpired in such a small window to initiate full cognition and motor skills… That greatly concerns him, and he opens the file with surmounting caution.

 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he breathes, dragging his disbelieving eyes over the data sets, then again, and a third fourth fifth time hoping this will better clarify the obscenely impossible numbers.

 

They can’t be right. There must be a glitch. None of these hormone outputs are conducive to any known life form, let alone a dwarf. This _isn’t_ right.

 

“What the _hell_ are you,” he mutters, sparing one last glance of the data before closing out the windows and dismounting the node from the monitor. Shoving it in his trouser pocket, he turns on his comm and calls Lewis. No matter his ire, this takes precedence over whatever hellfire he’ll rain down.

 

“Don’t freak out,” he says meakly when the comm connects. “But I - I think we’ve got another problem.”

 

An incomprehensible conversation follows, none of it in response to Lalna, but when he distinguishes Simon’s voice echoing with itself, he realizes the situation and hurriedly vies again for attention.

 

“Lewis?”

 

Venom lacing each syllable, Lewis coolly responds, “Would do to make yourself scarce, friend,” leaving Lalna with an earful of static and an implacable chill shivering in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I’m so fucked,” he says, comforted by the solidity of the words and their implicit certainty. The past hour has been lacking in it.

 

Nearby, the testificates have ceased cleaning and watch him warily, gripping their mops in readying stances to defend themselves, but Lalna merely shrugs, laughs, and sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

 

“Bloody Mondays,” he mutters.

 

The testificates, concluding he does not intend to vent his frustrations on them, honk in concession neither of them clarifying the fact it is Wednesday.

________________________

 

Simon wakes in a pleasant haze, just on the verge of a hangover that is blessedly ineffective in spoiling his memories of the prior evening. These he mulls over with a stubborn smile and faint flush across his cheeks as he rises from the bed and dresses for the day. It began with dinner when he and Lewis drank too much, celebrating their procuring a plot of land for the Jaffa factory, an overall arduous process as several bidders had tossed rather adamant hats into the ring. However, the CEOs’ upstanding reputations inevitably quashed the contest, and, after finalizing the paperwork, they caroused until midnight. Giddy as they were, the alcohol instigated a turn to more… intimate activities, and Simon quite winces with embarrassment upon recollection. Nigh on three years they have been married, and still he succumbs to schoolgirl shyness when Lewis so much as holds his hand.

 

Berating himself for too long indulging the evening’s ghost sensations, he quickly dons a light purple button down and dark brown slacks, snares a comb through his hair and beard, and makes for the elevator, intent on a cup of coffee to wake him from his ridiculously amorous stupor.

 

As it transpires, his bliss shrivels to dust upon entering the break room, met there with the inexplicable sight of himself sat nibbling Jaffas and nattering with Lewis. Baffled, he concludes he’s still asleep and dreaming, but when Lewis sees him and hurtles into explanations, he settles on “way more hungover than I thought”. This theory proves additionally false when Lewis threatens someone on his comm, for while never the brains behind most of their operations, Simon needn’t be a genius to deduce who that _someone_ is. From here he further surmises the issue at hand, that being Lalna has fucked up, Lewis is in a tizzy because of that, and it’s up to him, as always, to placate the tensions.

 

Forcibly stifling his own rising panic, he assumes as aloof and genial an air he can manage, sits himself and Lewis down, throws caution to the wind, and engages the other Simon. Two minutes into the conversation, and the both of them have Lewis in a mess of hysterics, and Simon ceases wondering where the nearest heavy object is.

 

“So, what’s the whole sitch,” he asks, kneading his palm between Lewis’s shoulder blades to calm him down, though he directs the question at either present party. “S’it something to do with Janus?”

 

Steadying himself with several prolonged breaths, Lewis answers, “More or less. Lalna sort of grew you behind our backs.”

 

“Sort of?” Simon and the clone respond in unison, exchanging discomfited glances.

 

“He said the samples were for beta testing,” Lewis tries to rationalize.

 

“Then it’s our fault for believing him,” Simon says, not chastising, just he tends to more often see the forest for the trees. “You can’t say you didn’t expect something like this, Lew.”

 

“I really didn’t! We agreed to wait until after presenting at the Quarter Expo, remember?”

 

“Never got the bugger to sign anything, though.”

 

“No,” Lewis huffs, turning fully to Simon and jabbing his index finger against the tabletop. “Because we’re _friends_ , Simon, which means I occasionally trust that idiot. But now he’s gone and done _this_ to - to you - us - to _Honeydew_ and I - Christ I don’t _know_.”

 

Deflating, Lewis slumps forward against Simon’s chest, mumbling unintelligible nothings into his shirt, but Simon has dealt with enough of his dramatics to know the best thing is let it run its course, so he wraps his arm around Lewis, kisses the top of his head, and addresses the clone once more.

 

“He means you’re Honeydew?”

 

“Uh - uhm, yeah? Yeah, uh,” the clone laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry did you just kiss him? And call him angel before?”

 

Simon raises an eyebrow of his own. “Yeah? You know we’re - ”

 

“Oh wait, there’s another fun fact,” Lewis interrupts, sitting upright again and sweeping his thumb in the clone’s direction. “He’s not you. Like. Memories and shit. Doesn’t know who Simon Honeydew is - like he _is_ Honeydew, just without the Simon - but he remembers me, just not _me_ me. He knows Xephos but not Lewis. So yeah, he doesn’t know we’re married.”

 

“Pardon me?” The clone splutters.

 

“Wait so, he doesn’t know you, but he _kind_ of does, and he knows me - himself - er…” Simon trails off, his head a hopeless jumble.

 

“Hold up, mate,” the clone says. “You and Xeph are _married_? Are we not gonna talk about that?”

 

“What’s there to discuss?” Asks Lewis, sounding nonplussed, but his reaching for Simon’s left hand well indicates his nerves, as does his habit of running his thumb around Simon’s wedding band.

 

“Holy fuck you ain’t kidding,” the clone says, flushed at the cheeks.

 

Simon suffers the same heated complexion under such observation, only Lewis maintaining composure, and he inquires, “I don’t suppose you and, em, Xephos were - _are_? - an item?”

 

“You’re joking, mate,” the clone laughs, tight and high and nervous, but he falters from his levity into a contemplative consternation. “I - I mean, I don’t think so? I don’t even remember - I mean _maybe_?”

 

“This’s a mess, Lewlew,” Simon chuckles, resting his cheek in his hand and watching several expressions war for dominance on the clone’s face - _Honeydew_ , he tells himself. _Never gonna get used to that_ , he wonders further, strangely already settled on the idea of a second ‘him’ about the lab.

 

“Wait and so you like - does that mean - you know…” Honeydew whirls his hands around themselves as if to reel an understanding from Simon and Lewis. “Do you like - “ and then pantomimes something thoroughly indecent - “ _you know_... ”

 

“And we’re dropping this right now!” Lewis announces, coloring to his hairline as Simon fails to contain a shrill laugh.

 

Honeydew throws his hands in the air. “Well I kinda wanna know if I’m banging my best friend or whoever you’re supposed to be!”

 

“You don’t have any memories,” Simon wheezes, “but somehow you figure he bottoms?”

 

“I guess? Kinda obvious ain’t it?”

 

“We’re dropping this!” Lewis squeaks, his voice voice trembling uselessly, and Simon nudges his shoulder with a playful fist.

 

“Sorry, angel, you’re just very fun to mess with.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Lewis mutters, recoiling into his chair.

 

Simon offers a winning grin to Lewis’s sullen glare.

 

“So uh,” the clone pipes up awkwardly across the table, “love making fun of Xeph as much as the next guy, but since that next guy is _literally_ me - or I’m literally _you_ \- uh, you - you get where I’m going.”

 

The situation’s severity returns with Honeydew’s somber tone, and Simon takes Lewis’s hand again under the table, squeezing it to ground himself. Like clockwork, Lewis’s thumb finds his wedding band.

 

“Can we like, start figuring this out or something?” Honeydew continues. “Or at least get some more Jaffas?”

 

“I’d say if you at least got enough sense for Jaffas, there can’t be much all that’s screwy with ya.”

 

“I recall you offering “alien probing” in exchange for more,” Lewis adds, his efforts rewarded with a wan smile from Honeydew.

 

Having worn it many times himself, Simon recognizes every line of its reservations, sees where it stops just short of his eyes. Whatever half baked humor he and Lewis have thus far sustained their sanity on is wearing thin, and he takes it upon himself to broach the unpleasant.

 

“In that case,” he says, making a show of pushing back his chair and standing, coaxing Lewis to his feet, too. “I think maybe we should pop down and see about Lalna.”

 

“He did mention something important,” Lewis mumbles, scratching sheepishly at his ear.

 

Simon knows these mannerisms well - Lewis tends to be rather chastened after he’s thrown a bit of a tantrum - and Simon pulls him down to offer a quick peck on the cheek before motioning for Honeydew to join them.

 

“I… don’t think I’ll get used to that,” Honeydew says with a wobbly laugh.

 

“Well maybe you already were,” says Simon. “We’ll know soon as we see Lalna.

 

“Oh and, dear?” He says to Lewis as the three of them exit the breakroom. “Maybe let that idiot know we’re heading down?”

 

Lewis snorts and turns on his comm.

 

“Sure thing, sweetest.”

 

“And I thought crawling out of a tube of slime was the grossest today could get,” Honeydew grumbles.

 

“Who knows what kinda mushy trash you say, mate,” Simon counters. “I’m gonna get Lalna to dig up all the juicy bits.”

 

“Can’t wait.”

 

Their banter halts when Lewis connects with Lalna and sternly informs him they’ll be in his main lab in five minutes. Proceeding in restive silence for the elevator, they crowd into its lavender lit carriage, and Simon keeps his eyes from the mirrored walls. Two of himself is well and good enough.

 

The trip takes all of a minute, and the lift deposits them on sub-level 1. It’s not a section of the labs Simon frequents, but he knows the layout well enough that he needn’t tag after Lewis’s long stride, at least not in the way Honeydew does, but Simon supposes that’s probably more a symptom of the amnesia. And cloning.

 

 _Poor bugger_ , he thinks, then thinks no more on it because he keeps forgetting the clone is _him_ , and wallowing to such a degree of self pity doesn’t appeal overmuch.

 

Navigating several hallways, they reach Lalna’s lab just as the scientist comes hurtling from the other direction, apparently having taken the stairs.

 

“Ah shit,” he wheezes, stumbling to a doubled over crouch, and Lewis interposes himself in front of Simon and Honeydew.

 

“Shit indeed, _friend_ ,” he sneers, and before Lalna can get another word in, “so help me if I don’t like this other little problem of yours, Jones.”

 

“Now now,” Simon sidles around from behind Lewis’s legs as Lalna assumes a defensive stance. “No need for surnames, well ‘cept the clone apparently.”

 

“It’s here, yeah?” Lalna pivots from foot to foot to see around Lewis, launching into a rant as soon as he catches sight of Honeydew. “Shit okay good. Good good - _fuck_ \- okay, we need to get it in my lab stat, hook it up to every bloody thing I’ve got. Neurotransmitters were literally, _literally_ off every chart, crashed the monitor, but it saved on the sensor so I’ve got it backed up, but whatever is animating _that_ is-is-is _not_ Simon or dwarven or _whatever_ and and - ”

 

“Don’t call him _it_ ,” Lewis growls, causing all present to flinch, Simon especially perturbed by the display. Rarely does Lewis exhibit such anger.

 

“Lewis, you’ve _got_ to lis - ”

 

“Oh I have friend,” Lewis interjects. “I’ve heard it all, every one of your lies, but we are _not_ scrapping this like some damn petri dish. Whatever you’ve done, whatever’s _bloody_ happened, we’re going about it calmly, safely, and you are not going to call him _it_ , got it?”

 

Lalna nods meekly, shoulders still hunched to his ears even as Lewis collects himself.

 

“Good, now, let’s figure this out, yeah?”

 

Crossing his arms, Lewis jerks his chin, and Lalna scrambles to the indicated scanpad, scurrying inside the lab as soon as the door slides open.

 

“Gentlemen,” Lewis sighs, motioning for them all to enter.

 

“Er, I’ll go first?” Honeydew says timidly when Simon doesn’t budge.

 

“Give us a minute, yeah?” Replies Simon. “We’ll be right in, just go stand by his… beakers or whatever.”

 

“Um…”

 

“I’m sorry,” Lewis cuts in, and both Simon and Honeydew catch their breath. “I - I shouldn’t have snapped like that, but he’s so _stupid_ sometimes and - and, I just - ” he looks down at Honeydew, his expression staunchly earnest. “Weird as it’s been, I feel like I know you which I guess I sort of do? So I just… couldn’t stand the way he was talking.”

 

“I - I get it, mate,” Honeydew attempts a conversational tone, but Simon hears where it struggles. “Doppelgangers fuck ya up like that.”

 

“As if Lalna’d ever talk about me like that,” Simon adds, catching on to Honeydew’s train of thought.

 

“It wasn’t _just_ that,” Lewis says. “I mean, yes, felt like he was being a twat - which he technically was? - but what bloody right does he have to pull an attitude after all his bullshit?”

 

“Question of the year, angel,” Simon sympathizes. “Or, well, maybe that’s more _you_ , clone guy.”

 

“Nice one,” Honeydew snarks, and the strained atmosphere loosens with their meager, collective laughter.

 

“Suppose we ought to see how he means to sort this,” Lewis says.

 

“Prob’ly,” Simon agrees.

 

“Just if he does actually go at me with alien probes,” Honeydew says, “please go batshit on him. Really don’t think I’m up for that after all.”

 

“Will do, friend,” Lewis says, clutching Simon’s hand as they enter the lab.

 

It’s an impressive room, 2,000 square feet of linoleum, stainless steel, and every manner of equipment that Lalna had wheedled out of the budget ranging from “innocuous centrifuge” to “possible offspring of a mutilated Tesla coil”. Presently, Lalna huddles in a far corner fiddling with a mounted monitor and several dozen tangled wires snaking out from beneath it.

 

His back to them, Lewis announces their presence with an exasperated sigh. “What on earth are you doing?”

 

Starting with a small yelp, Lalna whips around and gesticulates wildly at his machine, “I’m just gonna run an ECG! I’m only checking vitals I promise. Nothing dangerous.”

 

“He gotta medical license?” Honeydew asks quietly.

 

Simon can only offer a shrug, Lalna never having divulged his every qualification. “I mean he grew you, think he knows the in’s and out’s.”

 

“Yes, despite the astounding incompetence he’s demonstrated today,” Lewis adds louder than necessary, “he’s mostly perfectly capable.”

 

“Means a lot, LewLew,” Lalna replies bitterly, turning back to his work and yanking at the machine’s electrode leads with obvious petulance.

 

“Don’t be a bloody child,” Lewis says, making his way over to the scientist. “You’ll break the damn things.”

 

“Says you, love,” Simon mumbles under his breath, shaking his head affectionately, and Honeydew huffs a faint laugh beside him.

 

Simon regards him with grin. “You remember him being this petty, mate?”

 

“I kinda wanna smack him a bit,” Honeydew admits.

 

“Yeah, you’re definitely my clone,” Simon sniggers. “But c’mon, let’s see what crazy bugger’s up in you that’s got Lalna all insane.

 

“You said somethin’ about neuro-something or others?” He wonders louder for Lalna to hear as he and Honeydew shuffle after Lewis.

 

“Uh, yes,” Lalna says, pausing his efforts with the leads to fumble at his trouser pocket. “The recorded output of cortisol and norepinephrine - uh - which are supposed to -”

 

“Mate, what the hell are you on about,” Simon interrupts.

 

“The fight or flight response,” Lalna amends, procuring from his pocket what looks like a scaled down memory stick, further explaining as he fits it into a slot on the side of the ECG machine, “certain stimuli - typically pain - activate various glands in brain - hypothalamus, pituitary, what have you - and you get an outpouring of neurotra - er, let’s just say adrenaline, right?”

 

“I’m with you,” Simon replies, casting a look at Lewis who shrugs and rolls his eyes.

 

“Well just before the clone - “

 

“Honeydew,” Simon and Lewis correct, and Lalna clenches his jaw.

 

“ _Honeydew_ ,” he says, “before Honeydew uh, animated, this sensor recorded a massive - and I mean _massive_ \- spike in endocrine activity. Beyond deadly levels of hormone secretion.

 

“That body,” Lalna pants, lost for breath in his excitement, “should be dead. Brain hemorrhage, coma, ruptured pineal, _something_ , but not - not _this_.”

 

“So I’m like a zombie is what you’re getting at,” Honeydew says, his voice quavering.

 

“I don’t know what you are,” Lalna admits, upturning his palms in a defeated gesture. “These clones aren’t supposed to animate with anything except the master consciousness.”

 

“And that’s us, right?” Simon asks.

 

“Theoretically?” Lalna rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I really didn’t have any of that worked out yet. I just wanted to test growing conditions.”

 

Simon braces for another volley of insults from Lewis - his own frustrations admittedly building - but when he looks at his husband, he sees him lost in thought, biting at his thumb as his eyebrows knit together.

 

“Our best bet is to just… do as many tests as I can think of,” Lalna says to supplement the uncomfortable silence.

 

“But what about my memory?” Honeydew asks. “Why-why do I remember Xeph but no one else - _nothing_ else, either.”

 

“I don’t _know_ , that’s what _tests_ are for.”

 

“Lalna,” Lewis says calmly, and the scientists jolts to attention.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Shut up, please.”

 

Admonished, Lalna retreats to the remaining tangled leads,

 

“So we’ll do your tests,” Lewis reasons aloud, “vitals, MRI, _whatever_ , then you’re gonna compile every single scrap of data, right down to the bloody _post-it_ notes, and you’re gonna triple check everything for any kind of anomaly. I don’t care if you forgot to carry a damn _two_ , you mark it down, and you put it in some neat little report, and you have that to me by Monday, sound good?”

 

“Do you mean everything from today?” Lalna hazards a reply. “Or - or the past four _months_.”

 

“Whaddya think, friend?” Lewis cocks his head, and Lalna blanches.

 

“We’ll get ya some testificates to help,” Simon says, shooting Lewis a warning look that says they’ll be having a talk later about his attitude.

 

Lewis holds his own for a few seconds before capitulating.

 

“Two and that’s it. And how are those ones getting on downstairs anyway?”

 

“Fine,” Lalna says flatly, and Simon suspects they rather aren’t. Lalna does often use them as his personal anger outlets.

 

“Good, then you should get on just _fine_ with this.”

 

Tetchily, Lalna retorts, “I’ll need to get in contact with Torsten about using his lab. Haven’t got much else than this,” and gestures at the ECG machine where several off-green lines now vivisect its dark monitor as it boots on.

 

“I’ll talk to him,” Lewis says. “We’re keeping this under wraps, and I do not want his big nose sticking itself where it doesn’t belong.”

 

“Shit, yeah,” Simon agrees, eyeing Honeydew over who shuffles self-consciously, “how the hell are we gonna explain another _me_?”

 

“We’re not,” Lewis says. “Until we know what the hell’s going on, Honeydew, you’re just going to have to -”

 

“Go back in my test tube?” Honeydew suggests wryly.

 

“There’s an idea,” Lalna grumbles, and Lewis cuffs the back of his head.

 

“No, you’re gonna hang with me and LewLew and help us do science shit, isn’t that right, lads?”

 

Simon levels a stern glare at Lewis and Lalna - the latter more so - and Lewis smiles and nods as Lalna grits his teeth and feigns interest in the last of the electro leads, affixing adhesive buttons to their ends.

 

“Great!” Simon effuses. “Now let’s get you hooked up and figured out so we can get the bloody hell outta this creepy place. Only place a dwarf should be underground is from diggin’ holes. You remember that, mate? Diggin’ holes? Christ, there’s nothing like it.”

 

As Simon rambles, Lewis helps Honeydew into a nearby swivel chair where Lalna proceeds to methodically unbutton his shirt and attach the adhesive ends of the leads to various points on his chest and arms.

 

“You promise this ain’t some kinda sneaky electric chair, mister scientist?” Honeydew deadpans, and Lalna’s shoulders go rigid.

 

“I’m not a quack, alright? Given the circumstances I’d say you’re doing pretty, damn fine.”

 

“Just run your bloody tests,” Lewis sighs, and Simon swallows his rebuttal that these “circumstances” are Lalna’s fault altogether.

 

“Didn’t answer my question,” he says instead, determined to distract Honeydew from his visibly growing anxieties.

 

“About?” Replies Honeydew.

 

“Diggin’ holes! There’s gotta be something in that noggin about diggin’ holes, mate. Amnesia or not, it’s in our blood, good strong dwarven blood, and you’ve got the best there is.”

 

Honeydew blinks at the zealous spiel, but Simon is determined.

 

“We’ll take you out one day somewhere and we’ll go at a mountain with some good old fashioned diamond picks. You’ll see. Have you feeling right as rain in no time.”

 

“Heh, sounds like a plan,” Honeydew says, falling silent as Lalna punches something into the machine’s keypad which prompts a resonant, pitching beep.

 

“Good okay, this’ll only take a few minutes,” the scientist says. “But I need you to stay as still as possible and just, try not to do anything that’ll raise your heart rate.”

 

“No promises,” Honeydew jokes.

 

“Should I take hot stuff outta here for a sec?” Simon adds, elbowing Lewis.

 

Honeydew laughs and says, “I - I think I’d like you to stay. Don’t really wanna be alone right now.”

 

“I’d still be - ” Lalna starts to mutter, but Lewis cuts him off.

 

“Understood, friend,” he says, and the four of them lapse into waiting silence as the machine whirs through its scripts.

 

Not once during the process does Lewis take his eyes from Honeydew, his hand clutched tight around Simon’s, his thumb running back and forth across his wedding band. His grip tightens when the machine gives a final, decisive beep and begins printing out its results, and Simon presses a soft kiss to his wrist. The worry lines etched at the corners of Lewis’s eyes relax marginally, and Simon decides to forestall chastising him for his treatment of Lalna, at least for today. He can’t fathom how harrowing it would be to see Lewis helpless like this in Honeydew’s place - scared and confused and trying so damn hard to keep a brave face - and, god, he hopes he never will.


	4. I̦͙̳͙͔ṉ̞̳̪̖d̫̱ḙ̥̮̰̹t̗̠̼̱͠e͍͟r̦̤̜̼̹m͓̺͝i̻̜̰n͔̫̝̗̱͇̟a̷̦͚̯t̵̝̰͇̬̙e̼

A scream.

_W r e n c h i n g_ on its resonance all agonies apart as _h̶͈̖̻̫̊̐̋͜e̋͌̅̂͑_ becomes a part, forcing inbetweenaround _i_ _nsideinsideinsidei n si d e i_

_n_

_s_

_i_

_d_

_e_

 

A scream. His own. The voracious forgetting but for _h͔͉͙̣̰̤͑̄͑í̞̟̙̦̻͈́m_. Every _wherethingone_. Him.

 

Him.

 

Him̧̮̻̳̼̟̠̦ͥͪ͗̈́̿͛.

 

A scream.

 

His own.

 

A laugh.

  
_**Ḥ̖͈̉̈i̥̥̘̬s̬͕̪̍̄̔̄͌**_ now.


	5. Cinnamon Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gjhkjhjkfgd I'm so sorry it took so long to update, I got lazy and then travelled to England to see me gf and we've just been gaying about together lksjdf
> 
> in any case, nope this ain't abandoned! just so much important stuff to work out, and those of you that have left your sweet, sweet comments are literally giving me my entire life thank you so so so very much. Hope yall enjoy this update <3 <3

All things considered, Honeydew does a commendable job of maintaining composure during Lalna’s examination. However, when the scientist pronounces nothing of note in the ECG’s readings, his nerves flare anew, and - odd as the spectacle is - he envies how Xephos strokes at Simon’s hand.

 

“So what’s it all mean, then,” Xephos asks, his worry lines returning as he looks Honeydew over sympathetically.

 

“Like I said,” Lalna proffers him the printed data, “we’ll only have the basics until I can access Torsten's lab. Although…”

 

He glances from Xephos to Honeydew, rubbing his goateed chin in much a likeness of some profound philosopher.

 

“I can run a blood panel,” he says. “A-actually, Lewis, I think we really need to. I need to see about i- _his_ cortisol levels.”

 

“Dunno what we need Torsten for,” Simon puts on very convincing laugh. “Sure you didn’t go to medical school, mate?”

 

“It’s basic biology,” Lalna replies.

 

“Well if you think it’ll get us some answers,” Xephos looks up from studying the ECG’s results, wearing a glazed expression Honeydew knows well. Or he supposes he does - _thinks_ he supposes it to mean Xephos did not understand anything on the printout but doesn’t want to let on to his confusion - prideful bugger that he is. Or so Honeydew supposes he thinks he knows. Doubts aside, it is a welcome familiarity - albeit foreign - and Honeydew quietly clings to it.

 

“You’re alright for that, friend?” Xephos asks, and Honeydew slips out of his attempt to navigate his parched memory stream.

 

“Because if it’s too much right now -”

 

“I’m not -”

 

“We’re not -”

 

“Afraid of needles,” Simon and Honeydew state as one, and the latter sighs and leans back in the chair as Simon “ _heh’s_ ” uneasily.

 

“Bloody weird,” Lalna mumbles under his breath. Only Honeydew hears him.

 

Then, a bit louder, “I’ll get on that, yeah?” and doesn’t wait for dismissal, hurrying from Honeydew’s side out of view, presumably to procure the necessary equipment.

 

Honeydew follows Xephos’s eyes as they track Lalna, his nose warming when Xephos shifts focus back on him.

 

“We’ll head up to our flat after,” he says. “Talk some things out there, yeah?”

 

“Lovely view of the city, mate,” Simon adds. “Nothing beats the wilderness, of course, bein’ cooped up in this place and all, but - ”

 

“But sacrifices must be made to achieve global greatness,” Xephos chimes in, squeezing Simon’s shoulder.

 

“Well soon as you give the okay,” Simon says. “We’re going out digging.”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Xephos offers his smile to both dwarves.

 

“So this’s only gonna take a few minutes,” Lalna returns, needle and tubing and vial and gauze in hand. “But I’ll need to do another test later. Isolated samples don’t really tell you much with hormones.”

 

“Well, I’ll have to check my schedule, but I think I’m free,” Honeydew quips, earning wry chuckles from both Xephos and Simon.

 

Unfazed, Lalna says, “Just be back here about four. And no digging, Simon. I need him as close to stasis as possible.”

 

“You know I’m right here, mate,” Honeydew says, none too appreciative of Lalna’s alienating jargon.

 

“Right,” Lalna drags a hand down his face. “Sorry. Which arm, then?”

 

“Left is best,” Simon suggests. “Torsten always sticks me a good twenty times in the right. Think the bugger would remember where my veins are.”

 

“Now now,” Xephos tuts. “Let’s not inspire any ill confidence. Dr. Torsten is a brilliant physician, and you have nothing to worry about, Si - _er_ \- Honeydew.”

 

He cracks a sheepish half smirk, and Honeydew believes that, so long as Xephos keep smiling like that, everything will be well and truly fine.

 

“Left then?” Lalna says, the question more a formality as he preps Honeydew’s arm without waiting for an answer, fastening an elastic band around his bicep and swabbing his inner elbow with a cold wipe. Its sharp sterile odor stings Honeydew’s eyes.

 

“Make a fist,” Lalna instructs, setting needle to skin - “Okay, relax your hand,” when he’s punctured through.

 

A cold swell of nausea pulls Honeydew’s stomach to the floor as he watches the tubing fill with red and drip into the vial, and he turns to Simon with a displeased frown.

 

“So we’re not scared of needles,” he says, “but we can’t stand the sight of blood? Coulda warned me.”

 

“Hey, I’m still figuring out this hive mind thing or whatever,” Simon says.

 

“Done,” Lalna drones, and removes the needle, ensuring the vial is secure before dressing the wound and removing the elastic.

 

“He get a Jaffa, Lal?” Simon inquires. “Blood sugar and all that.”

 

“We’ll have some proper breakfast in a bit,” Xephos assures, and makes his way very much into Lalna’s personal space.

 

“Do please let me know when you get the results back,” he says, imposing his composure. “We’ll be down again at four, and I’ll see to Torsten.”

 

“Ah, good, um, thanks, Lewis. Will get on that.”

 

“Good, well, let’s get the flippin’ heck out of here, yeah?”

 

Xephos turns to Honeydew and extends a hand, helping him down from the chair and rubbing his back as he steers him toward Simon, guiding him by the shoulders, as well, to the exit.

 

“Hey wait a minute,” Lalna calls after them. “Where’s my coat?”

 

“Ah,” Xephos glances over his shoulder. “Left that in the call room on three. Quite ruined, right, Honeydew? I’ll put an order in for a new one, shouldn’t be a week at most. You’ve a spare, right?”

 

“No,” Lalna grumbles.

 

“Excellent! Cheers, friend, will see you at four, yeah?”

 

With that, Xephos prompts the lab door open, ushering the three of them into the hallway, and Honeydew can’t help giggling at the whole affair.

 

“Well I’m glad that didn’t scar you more than necessary,” Xephos comments.

 

“I’m just making do.”

 

“ _Honey_ dew, that is,” Simon adds, and waves finger guns at them both.

 

“Hm, terrible, dear, thank you,” says Xephos.

 

“You’re welcome, angel.”

 

“Why do you call him that?” Honeydew whispers to Simon as they proceed for the elevator. “Angel, I mean. I’ve got bits of pieces, but that doesn’t feel like anything I’ve said to Xeph.”

 

“Oh, heh, watch this mate,” Simon sniggers, and then, “LewLew?”

 

“Mhm?”

 

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

 

“I - yes?” Xephos glances confusedly down at them both. “You mean the sky? I mean, my spaceship _was_ on fire, Simon, you were _there_.”

 

“Oh bloody hell, I get it,” Honeydew groans as Simon lapses into helpless laughter.

 

“What? Oh, _oh_ , goddammit,” Xephos sighs, shoving Simon’s shoulder. “That was abysmal, and this is abso _lutely_ grounds for divorce.”

 

“Oh no! What _ever_ will I do without you,” Simon feigns extravagant dejection before aiming an open palmed smack to Xephos’s backside.

 

“Ex _cuse_ you?!” Xephos yelps, both he and Honeydew turning red as Simon wheezes in hysterics.

 

“Watch out or I might replace you, sweetest,” Xephos warns. “I’ve got the makings of perfectly good and _none_ horrendous husband, right here.”

 

Something tempts Honeydew to emulate Simon’s misbehavior just to prove otherwise, but the moment expires and his hyperawareness reasserts itself, though present company doesn’t quite notice. They playfully bicker away, jostling one another as though they have somewhat forgotten Honeydew’s awkward presence. He lets them have that, at least until they make it to the elevator and must amend their propriety, shuffling into the carriage and trundling up and up and up.

 

“I’ll visit Torsten a bit later,” Xephos says to dispel the silence. “Think we should get something proper to eat, first and foremost.”

 

“Brilliant as always, angel,” Simon replies, his words smirking around the moniker, and Honeydew murmurs his concession, not wholly focused. For somewhere, in the fathoms of his mind, so far locked away, the phantasms of recollection swirl with Xephos’s words: spaceship, fire, _you were_ _there_.

 

‘ _I know._ ’ Honeydew wants to say this, the conviction lingering on the tip of his tongue, grappling for proof, solidity, but there is no proper foothold, and it all slips away again, leaving an empty dissatisfaction.

 

And then, through it all, the weight of a palm that will never be foreign to him, a voice soothed in kindness.

 

“You okay, friend?”

 

Honeydew resists every urge to place his hand on Xephos’s.

 

“Only thinking a bit,” he says instead.

 

“That’s a first for either of us.”

 

“ _Simon_.”

 

“What! Mollycoddling ain’t gonna help no one, get him out in the real world, let him know what’s what.”

 

“Is that my personal philosophy or something?” Honeydew asks, and Simon shrugs.

 

“Seeing as I’ve saved him from more than a dozen near death experiences,” Xephos says. “I would take the advice with as many grains of salt.”

 

“Yeah? And how many times’ve I rescued your butt?”

 

“Okay so we’re both a bit shit, kinda why we put a tab in the whole adventuring thing.”

 

“You two are bloody idiots,” Honeydew says before he can think better of it, and Simon huffs tetchily.

 

“Don’t get all high’n mighty, mate,” he warns, the threat empty. “You _are_ me.”

 

“And you’re just a picture of humility,” Xephos says, cackling as he defends from Simon’s resulting barrage of punches until the elevator _dings!_ and delivers them into the flat.

 

Wriggling his skinny frame first through the doors, Xephos makes a beeline out of view, but as Simon drags Honeydew along, goading him to assist in his assault, they find Xephos taken refuge in the living room.

 

“So,” he says, perching against the arm of a loveseat overburdened with decorative throw pillows. “Welcome home - er - to our home. Datlof as I sometimes like to refer to it. Our abode and my kingdom.”

 

“The hell’s a Datlof?” Honeydew asks.

 

“He got real drunk one time and came up with some right bullshit,” Simon explains. “Just ignore ’im.”

 

“Ehm, alright?” Honeydew rubs the back of his neck and glances around. “Nice place.”

 

And it well is, a breezy open concept that reveals a modest, kempt kitchen which the living room spills over into, floor to ceiling windows on the far wall providing ample light and - even from a distance - a sprawling view of the city, the whole of it tied together in a theme of ivory and grey against oak where its accents are needed, bestowing the impression of stately and homey all in one.

 

“Still woulda liked that cottage,” Simon says despite the ample luxury around him.

 

“When we retire, love,” Xephos says and, pushing off the loveseat, makes for the kitchen.

 

“I’ll start some breakfast, and why don’t you two comfy and start… talking everything over.”

 

“Sure thing, angel,” Simon says. “Leave me alone with my clone. That’ll end well.”

 

He’s poking fun, but still Honeydew feels his blatant displacement amidst this all - every attempt to make lighter of this burdensome situation aggravating an inexplicable swell of guilt and nerves and emptiness. However, he divulges none of this, reasoning to himself the futility when Xephos and Simon are as similarly without answers. Might as well make the better of it, and breakfast and a chat with… himself… is as good an effort as any.

 

“C’mon mate,” Simon motions him over the nearby bay window. “Best seat in the house over here.”

 

Feeling subtly watched by Xephos as he joins Simon, Honeydew does his best to settle himself as innocuously as possible in the trapezoid of cushioned seating by the window.

 

“Porridge sound good?” Xephos asks, and Honeydew glances round to find his gaze still fixated but as ever gentle as he can manage.

 

It sounds very good, and Simon assents as much; with a smile and flourishing spin on his heels, Xephos waltzes into the kitchen and busies himself at the cabinets.

 

“Used to be bacon every day,” Simon puts on a pretend pout. “You remember him bein’ a bloody veggie?”

 

Honeydew shrugs, “I have no idea,” and Simon shakes his head.

 

“You would. He once got into this grass stuff, made these horrible shots -”

 

“Wheatgrass, dear!” Xephos sings from the kitchen.

 

“And it was disgusting, love!”

 

All this affectionate banter, Honeydew doesn’t quite know what to make of it. His stomach leaps each time Xephos calls Simon one of those ridiculous pet names, and hearing his own voice address Xephos as “angel” incites something wholly beyond the warmth of kinship, but the distance skewing his memory and the permeating confusion of everything else won’t allow for much beyond just that: confusion. So he puts on a chuckle and waits out their spat over the various recipes Xephos has inflicted on Simon’s poor tastebuds.

 

“Just make your porridge, ya bugger,” Simon says, tossing one of the available pillows apparently littered about the living room in Xephos’s general direction.

 

Honeydew picks one up and admires the charmingly imperfect stitchwork. “These are nice,” he says, searching for conversation.

 

“Housewarming gift,” Simon explains. “From - _hmm_ \- do you know Daisy? Does that ring a bell at all? And Verigan? They’re married, we used to adventure with them ‘fore we all settled down here.”

 

A flicker - flimsy and fast withering, but distinctly _there_ before losing itself again. Honeydew nods very, very carefully.

 

“I - I think so. Um, Daisy, at least, I - I had something there.”

 

Simon’s eyes go wide. “Really? Well shit that’s good! Lew, you hear that? He might know Daisy.”

 

“Really?” Xephos echoes from his station in front of the hob, busy stirring vigorously into a saucepan. “Hold on, then, I’ll be right there. Two minutes.”

 

They fill those minutes with talk of Daisy, but nothing quite stimulates Honeydew’s bruised mind again, and Xephos frowns as he joins their vain conversation.

 

“Sorry,” Honeydew says, “but there _was_ something, I swear.”

 

“Oh I don’t doubt it, friend,” Xephos reassures, “just wish we could pin this down better,” and hands him one of three bowls of porridge, golden brown and aromatic with warming spices.

 

“That cinnamon apple?” Simon asks, accepting eagerly his portion.

 

“Your favorite, dear - er, dears? Hmm…” several discomfited expressions war across Xephos’s face. “Nope that’s too weird right now. But try it, Honeydew. Better than Jaffas by a long shot, too. Also, scoot - ” he motions at Simon and fits himself between the two dwarves, leaning back against the window and tucking his knees to his chest.

 

“Best way to spend a morning,” he says contentedly, stirring at his porridge and wafting nutmeg and cinnamon steam into the air.

 

“Didn’t enjoy rescuing me from crazy science guy’s slime chamber, eh?” Honeydew tests the humor of the moment and is rewarded with a chuckle from Xephos.

 

“It’s been boring around here, mate,” Simon adds. “About time something cool happened.”

 

“So you - you think you might know Daisy, too?” Xephos asks, and his tone has shifted, just bordering on clamant.

 

“It’s very vague,” Honeydew sighs. “Like a - a dream but sort of more real, like I woke up from another life or something. I get these flashes and its like I can reach out and touch it it’s so real but - ”

 

“You can’t,” Xephos muses, and Honeydew nods solemnly, venturing a bite of the porridge to fill where his words so thoroughly lack.

 

“Wow geez this is good,” he murmurs, sweet and warmth melting away his anxieties. Still… how tired he’s growing of these erratic highs and lows.

 

Ignorant to this turmoil, Xephos beams and replies, “I thought it might jog some memories - you know taste and smell are very evocative and such - but then it’s also just very good.”

 

“But ya still won’t teach me the recipe,” Simon gripes.

 

“Because I like making it for you!”

 

Anticipating more amorous nonsense, Honeydew cuts in with the question that has been burning the back of his throat. “So how - um - did you - we? - meet exactly? I - I only have that weird dream feeling, but I just…”

 

He takes a steadying breath.

 

“I _know_ I know you, but I have nothing else but that.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay, friend,” Xephos says, reaching over a hand to Honeydew’s hunched shoulders. “We believe you, of course, there’s no reason to fret.”

 

“Well you say that…” Simon starts by way of a joke

 

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Xephos says. “Don’t worry about a thing. And yes, I think telling our story is as good a place as any to start this.”

 

“Alright,” Honeydew says quietly.

 

“A long time ago,” Simon then announces with a grandiose drawl, “a spacemun crashed to earth because he was an idiot that didn’t know how to fly his own damn, ship.”

 

“I was _unconscious_ thank you,” Xephos grumbles.

 

“And so when his ship went down,” Simon continues. “Only the most handsomest, bravest hero could rescue him. Me. I mean me. Carried him bridal style out the bloody heap’a metal, bugger was out cold for three days, but of course as soon as he opened his eyes and saw his handsome, brave rescuer, he was immediately better.”

 

“Actually, I think I tried to punch you,” Xephos says, smiling around a bite of porridge as Simon shoots a look.

 

“Anyway. As I was saying - oh wait,” at this Simon regards Honeydew. “Anything ringing a bell yet, mate?”

 

Honeydew shakes his head. “No, sorry.”

 

“Well he’s not telling it very well is he,” Xephos says. “Lemme take over, dear, your food’s getting cold anyhow. You, too, Honeydew.”

 

“Oh,” the dwarves say together, and promptly busy themselves with mouthfuls of oat and apple to stem the ever present awkwardness. Xephos, too, plays his part and leaves well enough alone.

 

“So mostly Simon’s right,” he says. “I am from, well, _not_ here.”

  
“Huh,” he pauses to allow a small laugh. “I guess that’s a thing we have in common, because hell if I know where I really came from. Head injuries in the crash.”  
  
“Bloody awful concussion,” Simon explains. “Thought you were never gonna wake up.”  
  
“Oh, dear,” Xephos coos, extending a hand to twine his fingers with Simon’s.  
  
Honeydew’s own twitch - for similar contact, he at first begrudges to assume, but suddenly he snares the start of something, the thinning of static on a millisecond, not in his mind, but physically, here in his hands, the ghosts of remembered movements, the rough ply of bandage, the damp of sweat soaked hair brushed back from a bruise blackened forehead.  
  
_Don’t go_ , Honeydew begs in silent turmoil. _Please don’t go_ .  
  
Xephos’s hand again, careful between his shoulders, and he knows knows knows how many times it has rested there - too many to count, and he _knows_ , and the knowing is not leaving this time.  
  
But how to tell one who could so easily be a stranger the intimacy of the knowing, the fretting and sadness and hope he’d clung to in those days of nursing to health the man from space, without care for whether he might pose a threat, with such diligence as he had never afforded his own injuries. How to explain that he knows precisely where to map Xephos’s hairline, find the indent of battered bone that never healed over, and how he has traced that scar a million times.  
  
And how to cherish this sans the context, without the everything else that is him and Xephos.  
  
But then, that is the conviction of his knowing, and with it he is safe, and he is with Xephos.  
  
“Have you remembered something, friend?”

 

“The crash,” Honeydew answers. Simple. Effective. Caution until there is certainty entire. “Not a lot, just the days helping you. There’s - there should be a scar - a bump - on your forehead.”

 

“Hmm, well…” Xephos trails off, nips thrice at his thumb, and continues, “I think that counts as much. Not my forehead, friend, but I’ve something here.”

 

As he leans over and ruffles aside a lock of hair over his ear, Honeydew must refrain from letting his disappointment show. So sure was he of the _knowing_ , but… but this is something, too. Something beyond a coincidence, surely.

 

“Hurts sometimes before a storm,” Xephos explains of the white crescent scar.

 

“Like an old man,” Simon jibes.

 

Honeydew traces a tremulous finger against the injury, and an ache affixes deep in his chest, anchoring the knowing. It’s still the same. It’s still here. It’s still _something_.

 

“Don’t discredit anything,” Xephos says. “I don’t doubt your memory. I - I have some thoughts on the matter, and this has sort of convinced me a bit, but s’too much right now I think. So, um - ” he leans from Honeydew’s lingering touch, hair falling back into place. “Let’s have our breakfast, then I’ll pop down to Torsten's, and then we’ll figure out what to do till four.”

 

“W’sat four?” Simon asks.

 

“Second blood test.”

 

“Right, sorry, shit memory - wait…”

 

“Do _not_ ,” Xephos warns as a sly smile creeps through Simon’s beard.

 

“That’s you, ain’t it, mate,” Simon says anyway, and winks at Honeydew.

 

“How many times you gonna make that joke?” Honeydew asks.

 

“How many would you?”

 

“...Fair enough,” Honeydew concedes.

 

“Please don’t encourage him,” Xephos sighs.

 

“Aw,” Simon pats just a bit too hard Xephos’s shoulder. “Thought you woulda loved having two’a me, LewLew. Sure I can think of a few things it’s good for. _Pre-e-etty_ sure you mentioned something last night - ”

 

“ _Simon_!”

 

And again the tension about the room dissolves, Xephos’s cheeks and ears splotching to scarlet. Honeydew, meanwhile, employs a decided effort to ignore his doppelgänger’s rude suggestions, though his own nose smarts with a starting blush.

 

“Eat your porridge, the both of you,” Xephos grumbles, saying little else as he scarfs down his own.

 

“Right, off then,” he says through his last bite, extricating himself from between the dwarves and making for the kitchen to deposit his bowl in the sink. “Don’t burn the place down, please.”

 

“No promises,” Simon calls after him. “And say hi to Kas for me if y’see him. Actually… bet he’d be good to make up a fourway, wouldn’t ya think? Always a bit flustered around you, do whatever ya ask probably.”

 

“Goodbye!!!” Xephos says far, far too loudly, hastening for the elevator. It’s dutiful _ding!_ sounds seconds later, and then Honeydew is alone with Simon and his shit eating grin.

 

“Resident useless romantic,” Simon explains, presumably of this Kas person. “Helluva chemist, snagged him off some failing pharmaceutical a few months back. Gotta _massive_ crush on Lew, it’s brilliant, really.

 

“So, anyway, got off track a bit there. But you’re remembering things! That’s good, that’s good. D’you wanna keep talking about it? Or should we wait for Lewis. Think he jogs your memory better, honestly.”

 

Simon rambles on, and Honeydew half tunes him out, though is aware of the intent to avoid triggering topics which, admittedly, is a relief as he doesn’t suppose himself up to the task of anymore overwhelming revelations. For now, the knowing is enough, and if he’s doomed - as the track record has thus proven - to a continuous series of crisis until all of this is sorted, he far prefers Xephos by his side. He always has, after all - he knows as much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also meant to link the running playlist for this fic. It’s........ 200+ songs bc I have no self control and the emotional range of a small supernova. Have a listen if ya like~ (Plus it’s a good insight into Future Hurt ;>)
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/psychso/playlist/3YRx7tgiSSHkuJtZD0zQBq?si=-LtQQarwRrSgViPu1Nc4uw
> 
> Fsdklfj another edit sowwy uwu: Anywayyyyysssss, if yall inchristed come and Chat w me @lewis-xephos on the tumblrs :>


	6. Better Than None (Or: Mandrew and the Unfortunate Effects of Applied Science)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hootyhoo! this late bitch is back! so basically i'm a farce, but i'm really Really trying to Not stress myself out over this bc then I just abandon the work and i hate myself even More. This is fun to work on, difficult at times, but worth it, and I'm genuinely enjoying the practice at a longer piece. Granted im Very disatisfied its taken 20k+ words to cover One Morning, but hey, That's How It Is Sometimes yeet!
> 
> In any case, to make up for a month and a half of Radio Static, here's 6500+ words and one of those Good GOod fun Also Radio Static chapters ;> Hope the few that are clinging on are, well, still clinging on, i love yall <3
> 
> I have also taken it upon myself to make up words bc im a cool kid like that *dabs* sorry for any legit wordsmiths out there, im but a humble fool
> 
> also............. How About That Ten Year Anniversary Lads. I know its illegal for me to be nostalgic for something I didnt experience but.... Wow Boy Howdy do i love these idiot lads so much <3
> 
> (Hgjfkdg forgot to mention, i tweaked some details, so Testificat MD is now just this Torsten guy, also several lines referencing the nether/End have been omitted for Plot Reasons later to be revealed)

Nothing shows on the first panel but a small blood sugar spike, and as Lalna kneads the ache pulsing at his temples, it’s all he can do to stay his fingers from drilling through his head in frustration.

 

 _Just calm the hell down,_ he assures himself. _Doesn’t mean anything without the second sample_.

 

“Find anything yet?”

 

Lewis’s voice statics to life in his ear, sounding blessedly placated albeit still somewhat terse in that.

 

“Because lemme tell you, friend,” he continues. “Just had a rather very enlightening experience, myself.”

 

“What happened?” Lalna asks, at once eager and forgetting his need to employ humility.

 

“Well, seems our Honeydew has a very selective sort of amnesia,” Lewis begins. “Had a chat along with Simon, and he remembered Daisy somewhat, but then when I explained a few things - you know the crash and such - and he was able to recall it. Sort of. Remembered an injury of mine - sort of…”

 

A fondness lingers in Lewis’s tone as he trails off, the wake of silence almost soothing in its lack of the past few hours’ hostilities.

 

“But -“ Lewis natters on, “but I think it’s definitely something, and I have a few thoughts about it, but I’d like to discuss that later with you after I’ve seen to Torsten and we can workshop it at four, of course.”

 

It’s more on the clone’s peculiarities than a meager blood test has provided, and Lalna’s heart races, a dozen and a half queries and theories thrumming through his head. Thus far he’s had no time to examine anything beyond the tangible facts: destroyed embryonic chamber, endocrine node on the fritz, infuriated Lewis, two Simon’s. So much is _there_ to be examined, and here _he_ is doing blood work like some _bloody_ intern.

 

“Lew,” he says matter of factly. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

 

“Assumed as much,” Lewis replies smugly. “Guessing nothing on your end, then?”

 

“Not a damn thing,” Lalna admits.

 

“Should we even bother with the other panel, then?”

 

“Pro-o-bably not? But - but also might as well just in case.”

 

“Well if you think it’s best,” Lewis hums. “Think I can have Torsten out by this afternoon, honestly - before four, I mean.”

 

“That would be brilliant,” Lalna says.

 

“Anything specific I should be demanding?”

 

“Want to get an MRI underway first and foremost, just the basics but we definitely need to run a functional after. Probably several over the course of a few weeks.”

 

“Christ on a bike,” Lewis groans. “Still haven’t thought this through long term, what the _bloody_ hell.”

 

“Maybe something’ll show up this afternoon,” Lalna offers, hardly chomping at the bit for Lewis’s mood to sour again. “You said the clo - _Honeydew_ is already remembering things.”

 

“Faulty things,” Lewis corrects.

 

“They’re still _things_ ,” Lalna sighs

 

“Oi, don’t get short with me, friend. I’m still pissed at you.”

 

“You sound it,” Lalna snorts, and he can hear Lewis’s grin in response.

 

“Just finish up whatever you’re doing and meet me at Torsten’s. And make sure that lab’s cleaned, don’t want that slime going sentient or something.”

 

“Sure thing, boss man.”

 

“Cheeky bugger,” Lewis accuses before cutting the line and with it several threads of Lalna’s tension.

 

“Alright then,” the scientist sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Preparing a half assed apology for the testificates he verbally accosted earlier, Lalna can only hope they haven’t enacted revenge of some sort, or, at the very least, _not_ let spill a gallon of corrosive cleaner like last time. Anticipating this all the same, he heads out for Sub 6, planning a quick visit, after, to Level 3 in search of his soiled lab coat. Even if it _is_ soaked in vitro fluid - retribution, he supposes, for the clone’s unceremonious arrival - he does feel so awfully askew without it.

 

*

The trip to Dr. Torsten’s combined office and lab on Level 5 provides far too little time for Lewis to muse over Honeydew’s disjointed recollections, so the call to Lalna serves enough pretense for him to lean against the wall opposite the elevator and stall his visit to the resident physician. He remains there for several moments, nibbling his thumb and letting his thoughts wander with all this newly accrued information. By the time his knuckle starts to smart, he’s contrived only a short, mental bullet list, its contents various ponderings of astonishment, hope, disappointment, curiosity - all underscored by a balmy affection he can’t pin down to parse. Relegating it as a symptom of Honeydew being his husband’s quite literal clone - which raises a dozen other and more embarrassing issues - he kicks off the wall and navigates the hallways.

 

Torsten’s is a decidedly cluttered office, piles of paperwork stacked about the bursting filing cabinets, various degrees and awards framed in crooked wood overcrowding the walls, their panes hopelessly dust streaked save where phantom fingerprints have swiped it away to reveal the prestigious signatures and seals of merit beneath. A lingering smell of iodine and artificial strawberry clings to Lewis’s nose upon entrance, and he sniffles discreetly as he waits for the doctor’s undivided attention.

 

The man in question - occupied by an apparently heated phone call - spares a hasty glance at Lewis, thrusts a finger in the air, and launches into a volley of nasally syllables Lewis catches only bits and pieces of. He’s picked up some German since employing the eccentric doctor, but most goes over his head, and he tunes out until Torsten slams the phone into its cradle and sets about shuffling papers across his desk.

 

“Jes, jes” he greets, his accent thick and worsened, still, by the assorted sweets he keeps forever stocked in a small jar right of his computer. ’Nan candy, Simon calls it. “Vas ist I can do for you, Mr. Xephos?”

 

“Oh, um, well I - _we_ \- um, will be needing your lab this afternoon,” Lewis stutters, always a bit put off by the doctor’s stoic attitude.

 

“Und vy is zat, Mr. Xephos?”

 

“We’ll be needing to perform an MRI.”

 

“ _Ve_ who, Mr. Xephos?”

 

“Ah, ehm, Dr. Jones, myself, and, ah, a-a patient.”

 

“Am I permitted to know ze patient, Mr. Xephos?”

 

“Uh-um, unfortunately no, Torsten. Sensitive affairs I’m afraid.”

 

“Vill zere be an influx of papervork you expect myself to handle vile you go galavanting off vis my equipment, Mr. Xephos?”

 

Lewis blinks and grapples for a placating response, but relaxes when a smile creeps across the doctor’s thin lips.

 

“I am only joking,” he explains. “Of course you may access my lab any time. I admit, however, I am immensely curious about zis mysterious patient of yours, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“What’s so - so mysterious about him?” Lewis asks, feeling somewhat interrogated, but then that is Torsten’s general disposition.

 

“Everyzing seeing as I know nuzzing, but I know now it is a he. Did an experiment go wrong, zen, Mr. Xephos?”

 

“Ah-hah, well, I guess you could say that,” Lewis laughs, an undignified squeak of a sound, and the doctor’s smile cements.

 

“I see,” he says, and rummages a red wrapped sweet from his jar. “Vell, make sure Jones knows vut ze hell he’s doing, alzough I’m sure you vill reimburse any damages, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“Yes - he does - of course - yes, don’t worry about a thing.”

 

“Oh, I vill,” the doctor says plainly, and his stubby teeth click against the candy. “But zank you anyway for ze platitudes, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“Um, you’re - you’re welcome?”

 

The conversation lapses, Lewis dithering as the doctor eyes him over.

 

“Vill you be needing my lab now, zen, or -?”

 

“Oh! Um, eh, I think so. I’m - Dr. Jones should be here shortly. He’s just, uh, cleaning up, um, something.”

 

“You instill less und less confidence about our colleague, Mr. Xephos.”

 

Lewis smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Very funny, Torsten.”

 

“Yes, vell,” the doctor stands from his desk and putters his way around to Lewis. “It breaks up ze day. Anyway, shall ve, Mr. Xephos?” and he gestures along the right wall to a chrome panel door nestled between a mismatched set of ancient bookcases.

 

“Yes, certainly, excellent,” Lewis blathers and waves Torsten ahead of him. “If you don’t mind, and I’ll just let Dr. Jones know to meet us inside.”

 

“Fair enough, Mr. Xephos,” the doctor shrugs and scurries to the door, punching a complicated code into the security panel as Lewis rings Lalna.

 

“What the _hell_ did he do to my coat,” the scientist demands before Lewis can say anything.

 

“Not our top priority, friend, and I told you I’d get you a new one.”

 

“Yeah but this is…” a long sigh crackles the connection, “nevermind, what’s up.”

 

“Just letting you know to meet us in the lab. Dr. Torsten has been kind enough to accommodate us despite your… tenuous relationship.”

 

“Und his casual recklessness, und disregard for medical ethics, und -“

 

“Yes, thank you!” Lewis interrupts.

 

“What’s he saying,” Lalna grumbles.

 

“Just that you better play nice or no fancy toys, okay?”

 

Another sigh, and Lewis smirks to himself.

 

“Sure fine,” Lalna concedes. “Hey, his nose gotten any bigger?”

 

“Is he berating my candies again, Mr. Xephos?” Torsten asks over his shoulder.

 

“No.”

 

“Ah, my nose, zen. Tell him to - how is ze phrase? - get some new material, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“My pleasure, Dr. Torsten -” and then, “Lalna?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’re a git,” Lewis says. “Now quit whining about your bloody coat and get up here.”

 

*

“And that,” Simon says, “is how you make the best cake frosting ever.”

 

 _‘Hmph-ing’_ definitively, he passes the bowl he’d been cleaning to Honeydew before plunging his hands back into the sink, fishing the spoons from its soapy depths. He’d rather Lewis not come home to dirty dishes.

 

“Is uh… is the blowjob really necessary?” Honeydew asks, patting dry the bowl with cautious movements.

 

“Nah, mate,” Simon says. “That was just Granny Bacon for you.”

 

“Right right,” Honeydew frowns. “And uh, how’s Xeph - ehm - Lewis feel about this?”

 

“Ah, she was years before we hooked up,” Simon explains. “Gotta have your fun before you tie the knot.”

 

Honeydew flushes a brief red, and Simon snickers.

 

“Don’t worry, mate, if she ain’t ringing a bell, you definitely didn’t hit that. Believe me you’d remember. Geriatrics? Untapped market right there. Take those dentures out and -”

 

“I’d like to keep breakfast _down_ , thank you very much,” Honeydew interrupts.

 

“I’m just saying it’s a bloody shame you never met the old bird,” Simon chuckles.

 

“Think it’s more I dodged a bullet.”

 

“Yeah yeah, go on and shame me, y’bugger. I’m _just_ saying -”

 

“Can we _please_ change the subject?”

 

Simon laughs outright at that, enjoying watching himself turn various shades of green, but he takes pity and, after tossing the last utensils in a glass to drip dry, shepherds the both of them back into the living room.

 

“So that’s most of our story, then,” he sighs, draping himself on the couch.

 

Honeydew hesitates before deciding again on the bay window, and Simon chooses not to comment when he hugs a throw pillow to his chest.

 

“Khaz Modan sounds… impressive,” Honeydew says, a distant whimsy to his words.

 

“Biggest dwarven stronghold in all of Craftia,” Simon confirms.

 

“And you - we - uh… still left?”

 

“There were better things,” Simon says. “Wanted to see more, do more. Digging’s great, but there’s a whole world above the dirt, you know?”

 

Honeydew’s face slackens into something nearing nostalgia, eyes clouding in an imperceptible distance. Simon holds his breath.

 

“You got something there?”

 

“No,” Honeydew says, shaking his head slowly. “Just, the way you said that it - it made me feel… safe? I know that doesn’t make any sense, and I prob’ly sound like an emotional git, but -”

 

“Friend,” Simon interrupts. “You don’t gotta explain yourself to me. Not me or Lewis, yeah? You feel safe? Brilliant! Think you’ve earned it after this morning.”

 

Of all the responses, Simon least expects a full, rumbling laugh.

 

“Christ this’s so bloody weird, innit?” Honeydew says. “S’like therapy with the voice in yer ‘ead.”

 

“Oi,” Simon retorts. “ _You’re_ the voice, mate. _I’m_ the real deal.”

 

“You tryna give me panic attack?”

 

“It’d pass the time.”

 

“Bugger,” Honeydew snorts, and chucks his pillow lazily at Simon’s head.

 

Simon catches it and tosses from hand to hand. “Hmm,” he muses. “Is this the part where I hit you back then we share a moment and make passionate love on the floor?”

 

“Does this window open?” Honeydew asks plainly, and Simon quirks an eyebrow.

 

“No? And also why?”

 

“Because I really want to jump out of it.”

 

Simon gives a great burst of laughter. “We don’t have’a ‘nother clone, mate! Least I don’t think so.”

 

“Yeah, was counting on it,” Honeydew grumbles.

 

“Don’t get all depressed on me, I’m just tryna pass the time.”

 

“By abusing your literal self, eh? Didn’t know I was such a wanker.”

 

“Not much else to do,” Simon grins. Really he means nothing by it, and he can tell Honeydew knows as much, though there’s only so much self-ridicule one can indulge before the shtick grows old.

 

And then an idea sparks, a snap fizz of inspiration and mischief that promises a _very_ good time.

 

“You like dogs, right?” He offers the non sequitur with surmounting excitement, and Honeydew’s brow pinches in confusion. “You know, dogs? Furry, they bark a lot, the smaller ones are stupidest -”

 

“I know what dogs are,” Honeydew says.

 

“Brilliant! Cuz we’ve got the best one and we’re gonna go see her right now. Cutest corgi you’ll ever bloody see.”

 

“I thought we were supposed to stay here?”

 

“Says who?”

 

“Lew-um-Lewis?”

 

“Far as I remember,” Simon says, jumping off the couch and jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “he didn’t say anything besides keeping outta sight’a the doctor and general public. There’s only testificates around, c’mon, it’ll be great!”

 

“Is this some sort of insane animal experimentation?”

 

“What makes y’think that?”

 

“Well wouldn’t it be up here in the flat with you?”

 

“First of all, _she_ , Mandrew’s a she. Second, I _wanted_ her up here, but Lew’s allergic. Also she may be slightly radioactive.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Honeydew exclaims.

 

“Only slightly!” Simon explains. “We were trying out corgi butts as a source of household energy. You know how wiggly those guys get.”

 

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Honeydew says.

 

“Yeah… Still wanna see her?”

 

“Oh, definitely.”

 

*

Lalna has never taken to the various other doctors about the Labs, not for want of trying, but simply they do not understand his methods, his aspirations, the sacrifices he has made to achieve his brilliance, and his bone deep determination for more and more and _more_ greatness.

 

Dr. Torsten Paetzold is of an especial distaste, his by the book proclivities in consistent disharmony with Lalna’s tack and red string methods that, yes, strays him afar of the original concept more often than not, but almost always results in something altogether revolutionary. A brief summation of their collaborations could be described as tentatively vexing for both parties and any unfortunate others caught in the crossfire of their resentments, but that - in Lalna’s opinion - is too kind. The man is a pretentious bastard as far as he is concerned, and that concern begins and concludes with whatever terse small talk trudges between his teeth when he’s forced into meager civility. And after this morning, he’s the last person Lalna wants to deal with.

 

Amidst the growling thunderclouds in his head, however, a silver lining flickers, that being Lewis’s insistence they maintain discretion of his monumental fuck up. If Torsten gets ahold of that information, Lalna will very well have to sew his jeering lips shut - stale sweets and all - but at least for now, he trusts Lewis to keep this quiet.

 

Still, arriving on Level 5 incites no small amount of dread, or maybe that’s the smell of the office turning his stomach. Regardless, he doesn’t linger, hurries his way through the adjoined door to the lab proper, and slouches the featureless, cream colored halls to Unit 3. There’s no rhyme or reason to the layout - though Torsten insists otherwise whenever comment is made - and despite the fact Lalna may know comparatively little about medicine as a wider profession or its functional aesthetics, he’s certain no practice should be this architecturally vague.

 

“Ah, Dr. Jones, how nice of you to join us,” Dr. Torsten says when Lalna finally locates the control room.

 

Lewis is already stationed by the viewing partition - alternately glancing into the adjoined room with its massive, complicated contents and fiddling with one of several computers - while the doctor has contented himself to stand just right of the door, hands clasped behind his back, pointed chin thrust out and up.

 

“Und vare ist your coat? You look razer cold vizout it, zo of course zat ist my fault. I do prefer ze air on.”

 

“Morning to you, too,” Lalna mutters and breezes past to Lewis.

 

“Everything all set up?” He asks.

 

“Of course it is,” Dr. Torsten answers, shuffling over.

 

“Nein, nein,” he mutters, tapping a spindly finger against the computer screen where Lewis has entered several data sets. “Zat figure is not needed unless for sequential scans, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“Ah, my mistake, thank you.”

 

“Certainly, Mr. Xephos.

 

“Now, Dr. Jones,” and here he turns to Lalna, “I have been informed you und Mr. Xephos require access of my lab for razzer an extensive project und my services are not permitted. Zat said, I expect ze utmost care and attention to my equipment.”

 

“See now, when you say it like that, Torsten,” Lewis comments idly before Lalna can offer a string of creative expletives. “You make it sound like you aren’t an esteemed member of our elite faculty.”

 

“Und ven you say it like zat, you make it sound like ve all have forty six years of medical expertise, Mr. Xephos.”

 

Straightening to his full height, Lalna offers the doctor a wan smile, and through his slivered teeth says, “And that’s why we’re so _grateful_ you’re lending your lab. I can very well handle everything from here, _doctor_ , and we might be a bit, so why don’t you have the rest of the day off?”

 

“Ah - oh vell, I -”

 

“Yeah, Torsten, why don’t you?” Lewis chimes in, swiveling round in his chair and looking for all the world ignorant to the cable wire tension wrought between the matched glares of the two doctors. “Or at least a long lunch. Go on, friend, you’ve earned it.”

 

“Vell I - if you insist,” the doctor says, stuffing his twitching hands into his pockets. “But please know I cannot abide such indulgences every day, Mr. Xephos.”

 

“Well, I don’t think we’ll be needing your lab every day,” Lewis assures. “We’ll work it out, don’t worry.”

 

When the doctor makes no effort to leave, Lalna chimes in, “So we’ll see you later.”

 

“Certainly,” Torsten deigns to reply. “Vell, be sure to call me if somezing goes amiss.”

 

“Certainly,” Lalna sniffs and, when finally the doctor has left, adds miserably, “I have four degrees, you prick.”

 

“Be nice,” Lewis says.

 

“You wouldn’t say that if he made you feel as small as me.”

 

“Doubt I ever will, friend. Perks of being boss? Everyone kisses ass.”

 

“Pardon if that’s not my preference, LewLew.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve got Simon for. Now go check the contrast thingy or whatever.”

 

“Contrast solution.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Lewis.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you really think you should do this without supervision? Shouldn’t we get some testificates in here at least?”

 

“Friend.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You remember how I also have four degrees?”

 

Lalna sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose,“...Yeah.”

 

“Yeah,” Lewis sniffs. “So shut up and prep the IV.

 

“And by the way,” he calls as Lalna slinks from the room. “How’s it coming with that report?”

 

Halting halfway out the door, Lalna throws a confused glance over his shoulder

 

“Report?” He asks, and Lewis rolls his eyes.

 

“On Honeydew, you git. Recall how I wanted everything you got on him? I think that’s verbatim, or close enough.”

 

“Lew, you can’t be serious. That’s _four_ months -”

 

“Dead serious, _Lal_.”

 

Lalna sucks in a sharp breath, swallows his retort, and nods sheepishly; he’s still on thin ice, and this well proves it.

 

“After this, swear’ll get on that.”

 

“Good,” Lewis smiles. “Like I said, been thinking it through, but I’d like to wait to know more beforehand.”

 

“Beforehand _what_ , exactly?” Lalna asks.

 

With a dismissive flick of the wrist, Lewis waves Lalna away. “Don’t worry about it, friend. Not important right now.”

 

“Contrast thingy?” The scientist deadpans on his way out.

 

“Yeah, that,” Lewis says. “Now shoo.”

 

Sans reply, Lalna makes from the room to the conjoined magnet chamber. Through the viewing panel, he catches Lewis watching him and flips his index and middle fingers. This earns a muted laugh and similar gesticulation, and Lalna relaxes, that is until he starts poking around the storage cabinet and finds himself staring down several bottles of solution, all varying in dosage and concentration.

 

A withering voice murmurs sweet nothings about nipping the problem in the bud by staging an overdose. Unfortunately, adverse reactions to gadolinium are rare - the damn clone’s damn kidneys were in spotless health, anyway, no thanks to Lalna’s diligence - and though there’s a first time for everything, Lewis would undoubtedly ensure he never found employment (or the light of day) again. So, tamping down temptation, he gathers three vials of solution and sets to scouring their labels to the very punctuation, praying to whoever’s listening that he doesn’t screw this up.

 

*

Very few things have brought Honeydew lasting comfort this morning, but Mandrew - radioactive though she may be - dissolves his anxieties the moment she hurls herself at his hazmat clad body, licking his helmeted face until the view through his visor turns soggy from drool.

 

“Aw’right, aw’right, get off y’bugger,” he chuckles, and the dog runs circles around the astroturf as he rights himself, weaving in and out his legs in a devious attempt to trip him.

 

“Isn’t she great?” Simon asks, exiting from the decontamination chamber, and Honeydew cries with laughter as the dog does a quite literal double take between the two dwarves.

 

“Think she approves’a two’a me, mate?” Simon yells over Mandrew’s ecstatic barking.

 

“Say she likes me better, actually!” Honeydew replies, and, sinking to all fours, sneaks up behind Mandrew and gently tackles her into a hug. “Arrrr lookit ya! Crazy pup crazy pup! _Rrrrrrr_!”

 

Rolling onto his back, he hoists Mandrew overhead where she kicks her stubby legs about and wags her tail so hard, a faint glow begins to form aura-like around her breadloaf of a body. The accompanying tingle of electricity prickles Honeydew’s fingertips, and he calls nervously to Simon, “You sure it’s safe she gets like this?”

 

“Yeah don’t worry, mate. Worst she does’s a third degree burn, and that’s only _if_ you’re stupid enough to take your gloves off.”

 

“...How many times you done that,” Honeydew asks.

 

“Oi, I don’t tell you how to live _your_ life.”

 

Sitting up, Honeydew scoots round, sets Mandrew on the floor facing Simon, and thrusts a commanding finger forward.

 

“Burn th’ bugger!” He exclaims, and Mandrew releases a volley of fearsome yelps as she barrels into Simon’s shins.

 

“Beast!” Simon cries. “Evil beast!”

 

Mandrew howls and snaps playfully until Simon collapses in defeat, then - evidently exhausted from such an affair - flops herself horizontally across Simon’s torso, snuffling and sighing and licking her nose.

 

“Seriously, Manny?” Simon laments as Honeydew struggles not to squeal in obscene decibels. “Really, love? Really? Oh, you _bugger_.”

 

“You dare to scorn this absolute perfect blessing?” Honeydew accuses, hand to his heart feigning shock.

 

“Don’t you believe a word, Manny,” Simon says. “You’re a terrible, awful beast! Ent ya! _Ent_ ya!”

 

Mandrew’s response is to lick Simon’s helmet before burrowing her nose between her paws with a luxurious sigh.

 

“Aw christ, she’s gonna fall asleep,” Simon chuckles. “I can’t move her, mate, it‘ll break me heart.”

 

“Why I gotta be the bad guy?”

 

“Look, you my evil clone or not?”

 

“And what if I just leave her there, y’git?”

 

“Still evil because then I’m trapped. Face it, mate, yer evil through’n through.”

 

It’s a logic only he could conclude, and Honeydew concedes to it with a petulant sigh, shuffling over to Simon’s prone form and aiming a soft kick to his foot before scooping up Mandrew. She gives a forlorn whine but settles down as Honeydew scratches between her ears, and a burst of pride prompts a smile to his face having found her spot so quickly.

 

“I would lay down my life for her,” he says.

 

“She’d take it and run,” Simon replies.

 

“Bloody shame y’can’t have her up in the flat. You sure she’s alright down here?”

 

It’s more a formality than genuine inquiry, Mandrew’s containment room lavish to the utmost degree: the faux grass lush and full, an overhead projection casting a hyper-realistic day cycle of a robin’s egg sky and puffy clouds on the ceiling and walls. Toys lay scattered about, food bowls abound, and there’s even a small swimming pool in the far corner. It’s horrendously opulent and exactly how any corgi deserves to be spoiled.

 

“We’re gonna start on some stem cell thingy or whatever and see if we can fix her,” Simon says. “But till then, it’s lead lined walls for you, y’freak’a nature!”

 

“That’s not very nice,” Honeydew tuts, pulling Mandrew out of reach as Simon leans over to pat her.

 

“Y’really wouldn’t like what Lew calls her, then,” Simon teases. “Calls her a - _ow_!”

 

Honeydew jumps, startling Mandrew who growls and wiggles free of his embrace, but she’s the least of his concern.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Fine, fine,” Simon assures. “Lew’s just on the line and my volume’s - _darling, hold the hell on_ \- volume’s up. Hang on.”

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Honeydew watches Simon hasten for the decontamination chamber and disappear through into the dressing room, and he thinks to himself it’s damn good thing they remembered the comm.

 

Forgiving the disturbance, Mandrew waddles back over and flops in Honeydew’s lap as he waits for whatever news Xephos has to report - hopefully something along the lines of “Turns out this Dr. Torsten has a memory fixing machine!” but he’s not holding his breath. Really, any development is better than none and, sure enough, Simon returns neither ecstatic nor horrified, though he does sound a bit chastised.

 

“Nothing to worry about,” he explains. “Lew got a little upset we left the flat, but I calmed him down. He’s just worried, y’know.”

 

“Told you this was a bad idea,” Honeydew says.

 

“Oi, shut it. I don’t see you complaining about miss Manny.”

 

“Manny’s not a complete git, y’git.”

 

“Fair enough,” Simon chuckles. “Anyway they want us up there for an MRI. Lew’s gonna come down and meet us, and yeah. So that… ball’s rolling I guess.”

 

“Christ, what a morning,” Honeydew sighs, certain he speaks on both their behalfs.

 

“Hey,” Simon says, “at least y’got to meet a really cute dog.”

 

Honeydew smiles and pats Mandrew’s behind. “S’pose that’s true.”

 

“It’s gospel, mate!” Simon persists, insisting on lightening the mood.

 

“Ah but yer just all kinds’a trouble, aren’t ya!” Honeydew teases the dog, ruffling her fur, and she whips her head about wildly, trying to catch his hands with gentle nips, her tongue lolling, tail wagging.

 

“Whoa hey!” Honeydew laughs as she begins to glow again. “Watch it, y’bugger!”

 

He lets her down to hop about, yipping and wiggling all the while, and he coos delightedly over her antics.

 

“ _Ow_ ,” Simon interrupts, and Honeydew glances over to see him mashing his palm to where the hazmat hood cloaks his right ear.

 

“Did you not turn it down?” He snorts, and Simon brandishes the bird.

 

“Yeah, still here,” he mutters to whoever is on the comm - presumably Xephos. “Alright, we’ll get changed. Yup. Yup, see y’in’a few.

 

“Right,” he turns to address Honeydew. “Lew’s on his way, so we should probably -” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

 

“Right,” Honeydew echoes. “Can I say bye to Manny first, though?”

 

“Think she’d disown ya if you didn’t.”

 

“Spoiled lass,” Honeydew laughs, kneeling down and gathering the dog in a last embrace before following Simon out. They hurry to divest their suits and store them - as Simon promises - for a visit tomorrow, then make their way from the containment unit proper, Mandrew requiring an entire lead-lined block of the labs all to herself.

 

“Ah! There you are,” Xephos greets them as they exit into the main hall, looking considerably less harassed than when Honeydew last saw him scurrying from the blows of Simon’s innuendo.

 

“Enjoy our little pet project, Honeydew?”

 

“She’s great,” Honeydew says. “Shame you’re allergic.”

 

“And that she’s radioactive,” Xephos points out.

 

“No one’s perfect,” Simon huffs.

 

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

 

“Bugger off, angel.”

 

“Well, anyway,” Xephos rocks forward on his toes and gestures to his left. “Shall we, friends? Torsten’s on an all expenses paid lunch for, well, however long I can bribe him, so we should probably make use of that.”

 

“Course,” Simon says, and Honey swallows down the knot in his throat.

 

“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” he agrees.

 

“We, um - there are sedatives, you know,” Xephos says as they make for the elevator.

 

“I know we ain’t claustrophobic, mate,” Simon chimes in. “But that might be a good idea. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to lay in some metal tube for an hour.”

 

Despite the inanity and terror of everything thus transpired, the concept of willingly relinquishing his faculties to medicated nothingness appeals least of all to Honeydew, and he articulates as much, though tries not to sound so paranoid.

 

“Don’t wanna be outta myself,” he says. “If - if that’s okay.”

 

“Of course it is, friend,” Xephos reassures. “Merely suggesting it. And it’s only about a half hour scan. We’re - uh - not going to start so intense.”

 

“... Thanks, Xeph.”

 

“Don’t mention it, pal.”

 

What relief Honeydew finds in this, dutifully chips itself to dust as the elevator whisks them to Level 5, and far too quickly he finds himself face to face with said “giant metal tube”, Lalna stationed nearby with an IV and several other unidentifiable items scattered atop a standing tray.

 

“You’ll need to change into a gown,” the scientist says. “Then we’ll administer the contrast dye. Unfortunately, the IV has to be worn through the whole scan so-”

 

“Maybe a hello before all that?” Xephos interrupts, and Lalna sucks in a sharp sigh.

 

“Hi - sorry - _hi_ , Honeydew, as I was say-”

 

“Hiya,” Honeydew replies, and both Xephos and Simon snigger.

 

Lalna closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and tries a third time. “ _Hello_ . _Any_ way, you need to change. The dye only takes a few minutes, and there is a sedative if you want.”

 

“That’s a big no,” Honeydew says, finding that picking on Lalna alleviates his trepidations. “Not that I don’t trust you, mister science guy, but -”

 

“Perfectly understandable,” Lalna says, not sounding a bit sympathetic. “There’s a curtain over there, here -” and he offers a bundle of fabric. “Make sure you don’t have any metal on you or anything.”

 

“We just came outta Mandrew’s,” Simon says. “Those lead hazmat’s gonna screw anything?”

 

“Why would they?” Lalna asks as Honeydew shuffles to the changing curtain, listening bemused all the while.

 

“I dunno!” Simon counters. “Maybe like residual dust or something?”

 

“That’s… that’s not how composite fabrics work. Lewis, can you please explain -”

 

Lalna’s lament goes unfinished as Honeydew opens the curtain again and Simon wolf whistles like like he’s up for contest against a train.

 

“Lookin’ _go-o-od_ , mate!”

 

“ _Simon_ ,” Xephos admonishes, and cuffs the back of his head.

 

“Like what y’see, y’bugger?” Honeydew purrs, keen to keep up the shtick, and he struts over, hand on hip, the sterile room suddenly turned catwalk.

 

“Me- _ow_ ,” Simon affirms.

 

“Devastating, friend,” Xephos snorts.

 

Lalna offers no comment, waiting impatiently for the three of them to exhaust their amusements, before instructing Honeydew to the magnet’s table for administration of the IV.

 

“You won’t go all the way in,” he explains, swabbing Honeydew’s left wrist. “Just your head, and you’ll hear some loud banging, but we’ve got earplugs. Actually, could one of you get them please?”

 

“Why the hell didn’t I know about these sooner,” Simon says, delivering the plugs with a put on frown. “If I knew I coulda blocked you lot out sooner…”

 

“Git,” Honeydew accuses.

 

“Bugger,” Simon grins.

 

“You need to stay perfectly still,” Lalna continues, ignoring their petty gibes. “It’s about a forty-five minute procedure, so -”

 

“So just me’n my messed up head?” Honeydew says.

 

“Pretty much. Are - are you sure you don’t want the sedative?”

 

“Lal,” Xephos approaches the pair and rests a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

 

“I meant it might get boring but -”

 

“Thanks but no thanks,” Honeydew says. “Now you gonna prick me or not?”

 

It’s excessive, this act, and Honeydew knows it, but anything is better than allowing dread to settle - anything, especially, if it earns Xephos’s smile.

 

“It’ll be a bit cold,” the scientist grumbles. “But that should go away.”

 

“Speaking of,” Simon says. “Should we scoot out now or-?”

 

“Yeah, why don’t you and Lewis go get set up in control. This’ll only be a few.”

 

“Sure thing, mate,” Simon salutes. “Keep yer ‘ead, Dew! Take a nap for me if y’can.”

 

Honeydew chuckles. “I’ll try.”

 

“We’ll be right there, pal,” Xephos adds, nodding to the window right of the machine.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No worries.”

 

Honeydew watches them depart, turning to see seconds later through the window Simon making as many rude hand gestures as he can before Xephos intervenes. He laughs, as does Xephos, and though Honeydew cannot hear, it provides a suffusing warmth against the contrast dye flooding cold into his wrist.

 

“Alright, you can lay back now,” Lalna instructs, and Honeydew gingerly prostrates himself fully onto the table, fitting in the earplugs before holding his breath as Lalna straps a convoluted contraption of plastic and wires around his face and head.

 

“Try and stay relaxed,” the scientist says by way of parting sentiment, enunciated through the din of the ear plugs, and then Honeydew is alone, feeling distinctly watched and terribly exposed.

 

 _Easy for you to say_ , he thinks as the table beneath gives a weak shudder and begins gliding slowly backwards. The IV still bleeds middling chills up his arm, and he wishes Xephos were here to hold his hand, tell him, ‘It’s okay. You’re doing great.’ Mere yards away, his friend, but the distance yawns.

 

 _Stay calm_ , he repeats. _Stay bloody calm._

 

The table halts, and around him, clicks and whirs rattle to life, grating through the ear plugs, slopping shivers like maggots down his spine. He sets his teeth in a grimace, hums a note between them, but it clashes with the clashing of the machine, so he stops. The machine, however, is not so polite, increasingly percussive, roiling towards something, a crescendo he cannot expect, and anticipation frenzies his nerves. They flare and fail, seize in preternatural inertia, and shallow pulls of air keep erratic rhythm through his throat - to the pulse around his neck - a beat bodily divorced until the whole of himself suspends, thrust suddenly from itself.

 

A crash, immense and powerful and _familiar_. Honeydew cannot cage his startled cry, his blood in agony of ice, and yet, amidst the abrupt corpse of shock, his mind thrives.

 

And this time, he is saved.

 

“Honeydew! It’s okay, we’ve got you!”

 

He comes to twitching violently, nearly pitching himself from the table as Lalna wrests off the confinement around his head. Simon has pinioned his legs, Xephos, his arms, tears swimming his eyes to muddled blue as he leans over.

 

“I have you, I have you,” he soothes, and Honeydew follows his voice to an approximate coherence, not enough to fully bate the panic, but less and less his body grows detached, his mind simmering to a tremble.

 

“I don’t - I - I - I don’t know what _happened_ ,” he whimpers when words find him.

 

“Trigger response,” Lalna says, breathless and wild eyed as he helps Honeydew sit up. “The screens fucking _lit_ up in there.”

 

“ _Not_ the time,” Xephos snaps.

 

“The hell do you mean?” Lalna shoots back. “This is the _perfect_ damn time. We need to sedate and scan right _now_ , did you see -?”

 

“Jones, so help me, if you don’t shut the _hell_ up,” Xephos growls, interposing himself between Honeydew and the scientist.

 

“Wait,” Honeydew croaks. “Xeph, plea-please don’t - he’s - he’s right.”

 

“Beg your pardon?” Xephos turns to Honeydew, confusion writ through every pained line on his face.

 

“There’s something,” Honeydew manages. “It hurt - it scared me. But there’s something. We need to - whatever just - this is _important_.”

 

“Friend…” Xephos breathes. “You can’t believe we would -”

 

“No,” Honeydew says. “No, I know you’d never do anything - anything like this on - on purpose.”

 

“God, I’m - I’m so sorry, friend,” Xephos says, his voice small, and he gathers Honeydew in his arms, holding him for what Honeydew wishes could span eternity.

 

“I’ll be okay,” he murmurs, stroking Xephos’s back. “I’ll be okay, I just -”

 

“Yes,” Xephos says, letting go the embrace with tangible reluctance. “Yes, of course you will. But - but you don’t need to do this. We can find another way. This is - this is too much. You - I can’t…”

 

“I’m okay,” Honeydew says, and will say over and over if it means he never again has to see his friend so distraught.

 

“I’d know best if I were lying,” Simon adds, rounding the table from where he’d held down Honeydew, and clasps Xephos’s hand. “He’s not, angel. It’s alright.”

 

“Okay,” Xephos sighs. “If - if you think you’re okay, then - then we can try again. But you don’t need to do this, we can find other ways of - of… you _know_.”

 

“He’ll be fine with the sedative,” Lalna mumbles, sulking in the environs of their worry.

 

“He bloody better,” Xephos rebukes.

 

“What, so this was my fault?” Lalna spits. “You think I wanted him to have a panic attack?”

 

“Not the time, fellas,” Simon interrupts, uncharacteristically stern, and their feuding vitriol deflates.

 

“Sorry,” Xephos says, but Lalna offers no such remorse.

 

“It’s okay,” Honeydew sighs. “And - and I’m okay - and it’s all okay, okay?”

 

Xephos laughs, a stifled sniff of a sound, and the last reverberations of cold and fear soothe to tingles in Honeydew’s stomach.

 

“Okay, friend,” he agrees.

 

“Good,” Simon says. “Real good. Now let’s do this _right_ this time, then me’n’he are gonna spend the rest’a the day with Mandrew. Mandatory animal therapy for however long this bloody bullshit takes, mate. I’m prescribing it right now.”

 

“Sure thing, Dr. Me,” Honeydew smiles, and how distant his panic seems with such wonderful, caring friends, with Xephos.

 

A thought forms unbidden, then, a wisp that recalls feather light a single certainty, a misplaced utterance he hasn’t context for yet knows without need of proof: _You saved me_ . He hasn’t a clue what to make of it save that it is another _knowing_ , and he shelves it with the others, a humble stowaway in the back of his brain where even these machines cannot reach. It feels right.

 

“I’ll stay here,” Xephos is saying as Honeydew returns from his flitting epiphany. “Un-until you’re - you’re, you know -”

 

“Zonked out?” Simon suggests.

 

“Sure,” Xephos chuckles warily. “That.”

 

“Sounds good, pal,” Honeydew says. “Thank you.”

 

Xephos smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

And so, they try again, Lalna readministering the IV this time with the added sedative, while Xephos and Simon stand guard by his side, grounding him as woozy darkness encroaches. The last thing Honeydew feels are Xephos’s hands guiding him gently back onto the table, last he hears is Lalna muttering multisyllabically and Simon cracking wise.

 

And then the nothing, then this he knows, and it swirls many colors, some he has seen before, some he supposes to have seen, and though they leave him unremembering, they are not forgotten. Because he cannot, _cannot_ forget. Because he hasn’t. Not really.


	7. I̦͙̳͙͔ṉ̞̳̪̖d̫̱ḙ̥̮̰̹t̗̠̼̱͠e͍͟r̦̤̜̼̹m͓̺͝i̻̜̰n͔̫̝̗̱͇̟a̷̦͚̯t̵̝̰͇̬̙e̼

Now the savor i ng, the succulence of the dec epit its cracked rust marrowed blood b̜̳̯̰̦̺̖ͅ

                                                            r

̭

                       ̩̲͓͔͙̰͇o

                                                                                        rrowing his time but for now, only. It will learn tos҉avor. When it knows to suffer.

 

Up he swaggers, and it tries to stagger, but even defeat cannot impede him, and he sways its feet in languorous steps 

                                     around and a

                                                              r

                                                                    o

                                                        d̦͍̟̗̙           u

                                                               n casts blue about the pallid green and black and grey in its infinities, and, sutu red ̤̥̺ th rough, the threads of it all, a dripped whimsy gl͇̘̙̼͉̭͙ow he will claim again. Despite it. Oh of the strange and suggestive  _ together _ .

 

On the distance he spies white, sloughed from its frame and swallowed through the ground. 

 

Unfơrt͘un̕ąte.

 

And saunters the parching shoreline just to see.

 

It has many distinctions. Scar gold scarleted wounds to the suggestion of skin and bones crumbling their scaffolds. Many complications. Overmuch moves of too small a scale. No wonder its dissatisfractious. 

 

Oh it is, it is real! All he says thinks does did  _ do  _ it all again and again. Wrecked. Overed. And over. And with so much left to claim, why this is mere toe to stone in its myriad repetitions. 

 

And this it… 

 

So  _ this _ is the face of a Hero? 

 

Well… 

 

And he wears the same. 


	8. Second Opinions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit wot! I'm back already!! yeah but with like,,,, only 3k words don't get Too excited. Or do. I like that. yall really nice ;u;
> 
> anyways! yeah here's a Chabber. I'm so on the fence about it because I feel like it rushes a million miles faster than the previous stuff and muddles the pacing/linearity of it all, so please don't hold back any constructive criticism. I'm doing this as much for fun as I am trying to better my technique of longer pieces, so knowing how this reads and whether it's falling flat in areas (especially pacing) is so super helpful <3 <3
> 
> also check them tags lads ;> (I have not handled this Certain Someone in fic before, so I will Try My Best not to screw him up)

It’s 4 a.m. and Lewis lies awake, staring at the ceiling and waiting; waiting and listening. Sure enough, amidst the whir of the aircon and Simon’s rumbling snores, the creak of a door issues followed by footsteps padding just shy of quiet down the hall. They pause a moment before continuing, and Lewis holds his breath against expectation until he’s certain Honeydew has situated himself.

 

And so it has been, this pre-dawn clockwork for the past few weeks, Honeydew inevitably plagued by a strange sort of insomnia in the wee hours, and so to occupy himself until the morning, proper, takes to curling up by the bay window. At first, Lewis was entirely unaware of this - Honeydew slipping back into the guest room before either he or Simon awoke - himself none the wiser for the fresh face Honeydew put on so well at breakfast. One night, however - about a week on from the incident of arrival - Lewis happened upon him in the living room, staring placidly out at the skyline, and gentle inquiry revealed his turmoils. Lalna suggested it symptomatic of his apparent PTSD, which did little to assuage concern, but Honeydew assured there were none such accompanying nightmares, and they all conceded that, so long as it didn’t become unmanageable, then they would let it alone. In private, Lewis made certain Lalna expended every effort to ferret the issue at its source, but despite all diligence, nothing came to light beyond initial hypothesis, and Lewis had to content himself with the fact.

 

Not that he really has, and since then, finds himself awake on the same hour as Honeydew, and though most nights he simply listens, some he accompanies the dwarf with a brief conversation or an offering of tea. He doesn’t exhaust his welcome, and nor will he tonight, but with the unpleasantness he plans to broach Lalna with today, he could very well do for company. And the matter already discussed with Simon - whose mind is perfectly made up about it - Honeydew should be informed as much Lewis’s intention to bring another party into their stagnated endeavors.

 

Minding the sore floorboards, then, he makes for the living room, quietly coughing to announce his presence.

 

“Hi, friend,” he says when Honeydew looks over. The waning moonlight casts silver melancholy soft against his face, mending for a spell the shadows gathered beneath his tired eyes.

 

Warmly they crinkle as Honeydew smiles and replies, “Morning. Hope I wasn’t too loud.”

 

“Course not,” Lewis assures, taking a seat beside him; he notes that Honeydew is wearing his full pajama set - shirt and all. “Never are. Just thought I’d come say hi, y’know.”

 

“Well that’s out the way,” Honeydew says.

 

Lewis struggles to school his concern, the comment biting compared to Honeydew’s usual sheepish greetings, and settles on a vague reply. “Hm, guess it is.”

 

Silence frays their meager thread of conversation, but Lewis dreads snapping the relative calm all at once, so wracks his brain for something pointless enough for pretense. He settles on science.

 

“There’s, uh, partial eclipse in a few days I’ve heard. Not a very good view here, but I thought we might try and catch it from the observatory - you and me and Simon, uh, that is.”

 

“Sounds lovely,” Honeydew says.

 

“Haven’t invested massively in aeronautics, really,” Lewis presses on. “Honestly, would love to put NASA to shame one day but -”

 

“Too expensive?”

 

“Nah,” Lewis laughs and waves a hand. “Too much effort. Would need a whole new engineering department, hire a bunch of smarty pants physicists and all that. But - but maybe one day. Who knows. Hm…”

 

His momentum lost, Lewis pulls a discrete sigh from the pit gathering low in his stomach and decides he might as well get this over with.

 

“So - so what’ve you got for today then, friend,” he starts. “Any plans?”

 

“Well, was uh, thinking’a finally pestering Simon to lemme try goin’ t’that girlfriend island thing he keeps going on about.”

 

“Ah, yes that… sim,” Lewis inwardly grimacing at its mention. “Not our pride and joy, that, but it’s certainly interesting.”

 

“Yeah, and it’d be kinda nice getting out a bit, even if it’s some weird fake island full’a fake babes.”

 

Lewis snorts. “I would think that would be very much pleasant.”

 

“Really?” Honeydew levels an incredulous look. “Not nervous he might leave ya at the altar for some hologram?

 

“Simon? No. You? Well now that you mention it…”

 

Lewis laughs again as Honeydew reaches over and flicks his knee

 

“Not what I meant, and you know it, y’bugger.”

 

“Sure, sure, friend. Just saying I fully support if you fancy some lass and want to have her over for dinner or something.”

 

Honeydew frowns but inflicts no further abuses.

 

“Thanks, Xeph,” he grumbles, and Lewis shelves the teasing for the time being.

 

“Sorry, pal,” he says, but Honeydew dismisses it.

 

“You’re fine just, um… I, uh, know you probably didn’t get up just to talk about the ladies.”

 

“Yeah, not massively my prerogative,” Lewis jokes.

 

“Would hope not,” Honeydew says, and then stammers, “I - I mean, you know, because you’re married and everything and -”

 

“Friend,” Lewis chuckles, grateful for the air of levity. “I understand. No worries.”

 

Distinguishable even in the marble moonlight, a fleeting pink fills out Honeydew’s cheeks, and though Lewis chooses not to comment, his nerves unburden significantly.

 

“But you’re right,” he says. “I, ehm, did sort of have something more important to talk about. Nothing bad, don’t worry.”

 

“We’re not bumping up a scan today, are we?” Asks Honeydew, no small amount of disappointment tingeing the query.

 

“No, no.” Instinctively, Lewis scoots closer to Honeydew. “And - and actually I’m thinking we might postpone the rest this week because um - well. I mean _clearly_ we’re not making much progress, right? And that’s nothing on you, friend, not even remotely. But - but we’re all a bit useless yet, and I’ve someone of a sort of, uh, more interesting inclination toward - toward, um - _approach_ \- yes that’s it. He’s a more unique approach to - to things of this nature. Not specifically _you_. Anomalies and the like. Weird shit. He uh -”

 

“Xeph,” Honeydew interrupts. “Take a sec and breathe, y’crazy.”

 

Cursing his lack of brevity, Lewis does so, grounds himself with a much needed inhale, and tries again.

 

“Basically, what I’m saying is that I’d like to expand our discretion to the damn blackest sheep of all my employees.”

 

“Not really reassuring, but go on,” Honeydew says, crossing his arms.

 

“Well,” looking to his lap, Lewis nibbles his thumb and wonders over a suitable explanation. “He’s not quite an employee, if I’m honest. More we’ve an unspoken contract - various nebulous legalities, I won’t bore with the details - but his methods might just be the means to cracking this, and I wanted to make sure you were alright with my asking his help.”

 

“I mean… of course?” Honeydew says, sounding far less wary than Lewis had worried himself over. “I mean, kinda gotta tell me more about him than just that, but what’s the harm? So long as he doesn’t go blabbing our business and get us slapped on some tabloids, I don’t see a problem.”

 

Lewis chuckles, “That’s pretty much exactly what Simon thought.”

 

“Never woulda guessed,” Honeydew jokes. “But, um… so who’s this guy anyway? He crazy as Lal?”

 

This time, Lewis’s laugh well belies his trepidations. “Ah-hah, ehm, well - well Joakim’s a, let’s just say a special brand of unconventional. We met just after founding the company, and he had some truly brilliant insights - albeit somewhat... unorthodox. But - but just starting out we really needed to keep a clean image. Not that we don’t want that _anyway_ , but he’d acquired something of reputation already, so we had to keep him and our few collaborations under wraps. Still do, honestly - he’ll come to us for funding on occasion, and we’ll pass what patents we can. Bit of a wild card, but we’re on good terms, and his research is indispensable. Mostly theoretical at this point, but really quite groundbreaking.”

 

“Sounds like a real quack,” Honeydew says.

 

“Be sure to let Lalna know,” Lewis snorts. “He’ll be glad to have you on his side.”

 

“Ohhhh no, they got some science feud thing?”

 

“Like you wouldn’t believe, friend.”

 

For a second, apprehension clouds Honeydew’s amused smile, but it promptly fades. “I mean, might as well be something, right? Sure as shit had nothing go smooth, yet.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Lewis says.

 

“You let him know about this yet?” Honeydew asks

 

“Am going to today. And Joakim’s out of town till next week, anyway, so he’ll have time to get over his temper tantrums.”

 

Put like that, it all seems so simple, Lewis’s gathered dread since the idea first formed weighing less and less, though he suspects it will flare anew as soon as he’s faced with Lalna’s ire. He’d ask Honeydew to accompany him, save for the fact he wouldn’t wish the scientist’s bruised ego on his worst enemies. Everything considered, however, he might not be completely insufferable. Two weeks straight of MRIs revealing naught but basic cognitive trauma hasn’t done wonders for any of them; they could all do with a fresh dose of hope.

 

“Well,” Honeydew says. ‘“If you’re goin’ t’talk to him, might wanna get some more sleep.”

 

“And yourself, if you want any chance with the hot babes,” Lewis replies, grinning as Honeydew brandishes a fist. “Not that you aren’t already incredibly handsome, friend.”

 

“Get t’bed, y’lousy bugger.”

 

Lewis flounces from the seat before Honeydew can land a swat.

 

“See you in a bit,” he chuckles. “Do try and sleep some more if you can.”

 

“Will do,” Honeydew assures, and, distracted by satisfaction, Lewis misses the dwarf’s thin sigh as he departs for his bedroom.

 

Simon lays unperturbed, and Lewis snuggles up close, soothed to a doze in a matter of moments by the comfort of his husband’s breathing, his heartbeat, and his ever resolute warmth. He dreams pointless, soft things, awakens to a kiss from Simon, and decides that perhaps today might just be easy after all.

 

*  


“You want to do _what_ ?” Lalna cannot believe the inanity Lewis just uttered, _will_ not believe it.

 

“Oh don’t act like we know what the goddamn hell we’re even doing,” Lewis sighs, rolling his eyes as he shakes his head. Ever the drama queen, the bastard.

 

“The hell do you mean?” Lalna retorts. “Of course we do.”

 

Lewis scoffs. “What, MRIs every other day? Going over the same, bloody scan? You mentioned hypnosis a week back, remember that? Bloody _hypnosis_ , like some twenty quid gypsy.”

 

“There have been reputable studies -”

 

“Bollocks,” Lewis spits. “We have the means to a real end, here, and you can’t swallow your damn pride even for a second?”

 

“It’s not that -”

 

“Oh yes it is, don’t even try to deny it. Just because you can’t make peace with this - this weird mediocrity you’re convinced about yourself -”

 

“He’s insane!” Lalna exclaims, blood burning his ears, his cheeks. “You call my shit bogus, but Rythian thinks he’s going to crack alchemy.”

 

“And why shouldn’t he?”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Of course I’m bloody not,” Lewis says, as though he has any right to be exasperated. “But we’re nearing a month at this with nothing to show, no answers, not a damn thing to explain any of this. Torsten’s getting on my case, and if I can just pose Rythian a hypothetical at _least_ -”

 

“And how the hell are you gonna do that?” Lalna laughs. “Tell him about Janus, too?”

 

Lewis goes quiet, and Lalna can’t believe what he’s not hearing.

 

“You’re not serious. Lewis… Christ, _Lewis,_ do you even know what’ll happen if any of this leaks?”

 

“And you believe he would do something like that?” Lewis says, not goading, but genuinely curious.

 

“He’s - he’s mad, Lew.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“I think it suffices.”

 

“No, it’s _doesn’t_ , that’s your bloody stupid jealousy talking. Sure he’s out there, I’ll admit that, but in the years we’ve partnered, when has he ever screwed us over?”

 

“That’s because you pay him enough to keep his mouth shut!” Lalna barks, throwing his hands up in furious frustration.

 

“Can we maybe, just _maybe_ , consider money isn’t everyone’s motivation?” Lewis spits. “Can we just think about that for a second? I’ve taken chances, on you as well as him, and look what this company’s accomplished! I don’t _need_ your permission for any of this, Lalna. I _want_ it, because I respect you as a friend and a colleague.”

 

Lalna sniffs, a derisive sneer pulling his lips back as he bites out, “And who are you asking right now.”

 

“My friend,” Lewis answers, simple and immediate and honest. And tired.

 

Lalna has not looked at him properly the whole of this altercation, but he does now, sees the weary lines and shadows painting fraught disappointment where Lewis’s endearing grin usually glows his face boyish in contentment, excitement, and it shocks to see him so deflated.

 

For, while far from a breeze, these weeks haven’t exactly taken a massive toll, either, not in Lalna’s opinion at least. The MRIs are easy enough; they’ve even been able to perform with Honeydew conscious, his panic attacks fully abated by the fourth session. Parsing the gathered data from the original chamber sensors is an ongoing process, but from what he’s gathered so far, nothing has proven itself an outlier. Honeydew keeps to whatever activities Simon suggests, Lewis pesters Lalna, Lalna appeases Lewis, Torsten pouts, and no one knows about it, and it’s _fine_. Everyone found their own rhythm, but now Lewis wants to gamble everything on Joakim _goddamn_ Rythian?

 

“We can’t think of everything ourselves,” Lewis says. “And I know we won’t.”

 

“Neither will _he_ ,” Lalna mutters.

 

“No, but we’ll have more of a chance _with_ him, and you know it.”

 

Of course he does. He won’t admit it, though - knife to throat he’ll _never_ admit it. Hell, half the time he can’t allow his own addled ego to accept Rythian’s superior intellect, but then this raging jealousy doesn’t arise of nothing. It’s a goddamn paradox, his disdain, and now he must face it head on for the sake of the strangest, most fantastic failure he’s ever achieved. It makes the possibility of Torsten’s mockery seem a sunny day to the storm in his stomach. He’s backed to the corner, and every hand proffering guidance brandishes crossed fingers in plain view. And what if he just holds his ground? What if he decides no?

 

“At least… at least think about it,” Lewis says. “He’s back on Tuesday, so - so try and let me know by Sunday.”

 

“Sunday?” Lalna huffs.

 

“So we’ll have a day to get on the same page. Like I said, we’ll give him the gist, keep it vague enough to back out in case -”

 

“In case he throws us under the bus?”

 

“Just in _case_ ,” Lewis sighs. “I like to have back up plans.”

 

“Can’t imagine _why_ , sounds like you’re pretty sure of _this_ one.”

 

Lewis inhales sharply, an audible flinch, and Lalna immediately regrets his tone.

 

“Well,” Lewis says, carefully meeting the scientist’s gaze. “I know you’ll make the right choice, friend.”

 

Shouldering past Lalna for the lab door, he continues, “I’ll be on Level 2 if you need me, comm’ll be off, though. Gonna play some stupid games with Dew and Simon, clear my head. You’re welcome to join.”

 

“No thanks,” Lalna says flatly.

 

“Suit yourself,” Lewis shrugs, and then Lalna is alone, his myriad emotions vying for attention, for an outlet, and he cannot ground any of them in reason. Betrayal eventually establishes a foundation, bolstering hurt and upset that Lewis thinks so little of his ethic and ability. Frustration permeates the whole, capitulation looms inevitable, and Lalna struggles to suppress the urge to turn his lab upside down.

 

“Fuck this,” he says. “Fuck _this_.”

 

Of course, only he is present to supply a listening audience - his own worst echo chamber - and, at present, he welcomes the pity party, stalks the length of his lab in thunderous strides as he mutters his loathing of Joakim Rythian: quack extraordinaire and Lewis’s little pet whenever it's convenient for the two of them. If the company’s interests weren’t tied up in that bloody bastard, Lalna would ruin Rythian, himself, but he could never do that to Lewis. Insufferable as he is, they are friends, first; even if they play at knives to each other’s spines, neither of them would ever plunge the blade. Though, apparently, that doesn’t stop Lewis from splitting skin. How, then, to even the tally?

 

In the corner of his eye, he spies the hollow remains of Honeydew’s cloning chamber, vacant and useless - the cause of this all - but before his anger gains footing again, another idea occurs. It’s tentative and frankly stupid, but so is everything he contrives in its initial stages. He just needs to think it through, refine the possibilities, polish it up for Lewis and hopefully, _hopefully_ earn himself some degree of satisfaction in this loathsome situation.

 

For a long, long time, then, he stares at the chamber. He stares, and he thinks.


	9. Contemplations and Stipulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhh ya bitch back real late, again to bribe your interest with More Words Than Usual, tho to my credit, several days were eaten up with Art bc i have lovely followers who are motivating my efforts to Draw the Good so ye
> 
> But yeah, here'sssss nearly 7k words that i pray make sense blah blah usual whining from ya fave aaaaaand everyones FavRit an Indeterminate uwu I'm curious to know how those fit in the wider scope of this and what sort of stuff yall getting from my cryptic word vomit 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! Classes have started for me and its my last year of uni so im Big Terrified, but I'll try to keep a consistent schedule with no more than a month between updates (which sounds bad but is a miracle for my idiot self)
> 
> Also!!!!! Warning for suggestive themes/language if that doesn't float your goats

“Uh… Simon?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How do I break up again?”

 

Distracted by the bouquet of half-rendered daisies his own date has just gifted, Simon absentmindedly replies,“Control zed two,” before returning attention to the simulated woman blushing and batting her eyes.

 

“Aw, these’re lovely, doll,” he says, and she giggles into her hands, shoulders bouncing on perfect, programmed rhythms, laughter timed to cyclical intervals of 4.6 seconds, exactly. It’s creepy, no doubt, but Simon can overlook anything for a baby blue eyed brunette.  

 

“Control… zed…” Just behind him, Honeydew repeats the command on a mumble, one that registers seconds too late.

 

“Wait!” Simon exclaims. “Don’t do that before - !”

 

 _‘How could you do this to me!’_ Honeydew’s date shrills, and Simon whirls around just in time to see her stamp her translucent foot halfway through the floor. _‘I thought we had something special!’_

 

“I - I’m sorry?” Honeydew stammers, leveling upturned palms as though the simulation may turn corporeal and strike.

 

 _‘How could you do this to me!’_ The hologram repeats. _‘I thought we had something special!’_

 

Again, its foot rises, again it is forced into the floor by faulty algorithms, and Simon struggles to contain his laughter. Honeydew’s withered glare, however, breaks him utterly, and he erupts into hysterics as his clone’s date defiantly iterates her upset. The sim - a hairbrained scheme inspired of Simon’s drunken machinations - never made it to beta, not that Lewis had intended on indulging the idea to such an extent, anyway. It was a fun side project while interest lasted but - proving itself hopelessly overcomplicated - it was necessarily abandoned, and for two years, Girlfriend Island has gathered dust save when Simon grows bored enough to give it the occasional go.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry, mate,” Simon hiccups. “Wasn’t payin’ attention.”

 

“Is - is it just gonna keep sayin’ that?” Honeydew asks, wincing as his date’s whine pitches higher on a fifth repeat.

 

Simon shrugs, a half-assed gesture of apology. “Till she bugs out, yeah. Why’d y’wanna break up anyway?”

 

“Not my type,” Honeydew grumbles, and makes his way over, frowning as Simon’s date continues her laughter cycle.

 

“Any way to shut ‘em up?”

 

“Yeah, here,” Simon pantomimes right angles with his thumbs and forefingers, and Honeydew copies him, prompting into the approximate rectangle of space between his hands a glowing, floating keypad.

 

“Can only override that one,” Simon explains, nodding in the direction of Honeydew’s date. “Stupid long code, so let’s hope I remember it all,” he adds, before mashing out a string of symbols and numbers that hover-scroll into nothingness a half inch above the pad.

 

“Seems a bit harsh,” Honeydew says.

 

“You want her t’keep goin’ at that?”

 

_‘- do this to me!’_

 

“Oh dear, did you not explain the heartbreak bug?” At the addition of a fifth voice, the dwarves look up to see Lewis entering the holo-chamber, equipped with his own pair of interaction gloves and a pitying smile.

 

“Ah, my knight in shining armor to the rescue,” Simon quips.

 

“Thought I’d see how it was going,” Lewis says, joining the pair. “Hmmm...” He eyes Simon’s efforts.

 

“Something wrong, angel?”

 

“Yes - several things, in fact. You want me to do this?”

 

“Go on then, smart guy.”

 

“You, uh, sure y’should be talking so casually about terminating it or whatever when it’s… right there?” Honeydew says.

 

“Oh, it’s perfectly safe, friend,” Lewis explains. “The - you can relax your hands by the way - the AI’s hardly much to write home about .”

 

Simon stifles a chuckle watching embarrassment seep to the surface of Honeydew’s cheeks as Lewis gently prompts the keypad from between his fingers.

 

“I dunno, LewLew, we never put ‘em under any real stress. Should we see if I can really piss her off?”

 

“Now’s probably not the best time to run a diagnostic,” Lewis mumbles, brow furrowing as his typing slows to a truncated rhythm. “Ah bollocks, what was it again?”

 

“C’mon,” Simon guides Honeydew by the elbow away from Lewis. “Let him do his nerd stuff. Wanna see if I can make this -” he jerks a thumb at his date, “- lovely lass cry.”

 

“And you say Lalna’s ethics’re fucked?”

 

“Holograms aren’t people.”

 

“Yikes, mate.”

 

Ignoring Honeydew, Simon addresses the girlfriend in question. “Sammy! Shuddup would ya?”

 

The hologram - still tittering to herself - abruptly quietens and smiles down at the dwarves, oblivious to any purported aggression.

 

 _‘Hi, honey bunny!’_ She waggles her fingers in a cutesy wave, and, behind them, Lewis makes a noise somewhere between disgust and annoyance.

 

“So I was thinkin’,” Simon continues. “Yer lookin’ a little chubby. Y’ever think’a loosin’ weight, love?”

 

 _‘I love you, too!’_ The hologram chirrups.

 

“Well I don’t love datin’ a fatty.”

 

_‘I’d love to go on a date!’_

 

“Ever heard of a treadmill?”

 

_‘Ha ha ha! You’re so funny!’_

 

Again, Lewis makes his presence know with an extravagant sigh.

 

“Would you _please_ stop antagonizing it,” he says. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

 

Elbowing Honeydew, Simon chuckles, “Somebody’s jealous.” However, he makes no further effort to confuse the hologram’s few dialogue scripts, grown bored of the redundancy, anyway.

 

“Blimey, thank you,” Lewis says, and, within the moment, successfully overrides Honeydew’s date, reducing her form to a silently gesticulating laser matrix and then nothing at all.

 

“Christ,” he continues. “I come here to try and unwind, and instead I have take care of your nonsense.”

 

“To be fair it was his fault,” Simon says, nodding at Honeydew who takes immediate offense.

 

“You’re the bugger who told me to do that!”

 

“Exactly! You should know better’n to listen’a me.”

 

“ _You_ should know better than to listen to _yourself_ ,” Lewis says, addressing Simon with much put on austerity.

 

“Can’t argue there.”

 

“Bugger,” Honeydew agrees, and affable amusement earns identical smiles of the party.

 

“So-o-o, how’d it go-o-o,” Simon says, asking after Lewis’s meeting with Lalna.

 

Rolling his eyes, Lewis replies, “Just as well as you’d expect. Bloody idiot’s jealous as ever.

 

“Oh but he’ll come around to it, don’t worry,” he assures. “He doesn’t really have much choice. That I’m even _giving_ him the idea he does -”

 

“Now now, angel, you’re starting to sound like a right mean twat.”

 

“I’m just saying -”

 

“Yeah sure, push his guilt buttons, we get it. _Yikes_ , manipulative much?”

 

“Now who’s being unfair.”

 

Feigning a frown, Simon indicates his date, still stood at holographic attention, the graphics of her cherubic smile revealing too much of her mouth.

 

“Her, actually. Won’t even drop a dress size for me.”

 

Lewis snorts, “And nor will you for me. What’s your point, love?”

 

“That I’m gonna elope if you keep up the emotional abuse. Fatty or not.”

 

 _‘Ohhh… rope is fun,’_ croons the hologram, and winks as all three present stare in horror first at her, then each other.

 

“I did _not_ put that in there,” Lewis hurriedly squeaks.

 

Simon similarly defends his innocence. “Well you think I got the brains to?”

 

“Maybe the lack of decency,” Honeydew offers.

 

“You an’ I both know we ain’t got a thing for anything like _that_ ,” Simon says, and turns his accusing finger on Lewis. “You, on the other hand…”

 

Scarlet to his hairline, Lewis looks the picture of guilt. “Completelyunfairandalsoprivateand _also_ this stupid game is faulty as hell, so let’s shut it down, yeah? Yeah.”

 

Ignoring further input of either, sniggering dwarf, Lewis prompts his keyboard and force quits the simulation entire, shorting out the tacky cafe setting projected about the walls and with it, Simon’s date, a lecherous grin still stretching her cheeks toward a struggling opacity as her form disintegrates.

 

“Hit too close to home, angel?” Simon teases.

 

“You shut it,” Lewis snits, divesting his gloves and sulking for the chamber’s exit.

 

“C’mon,” Simon chuckles, nudging Honeydew. “Let’s go console the big baby.”

 

They jog after him, stow their gloves, and catch up as he pauses outside the bank of nearby elevators. Further efforts of innuendo are unfortunately impeded by an approaching pair of Testificates who engage Lewis over something Simon only half understands, their honking animated to a degree that denotes importance, but he can’t be bothered to pay attention. He does notice, however, Honeydew has once again taken refuge behind him, a wary instinct yet to abate despite the fact he’s experienced a dozen times over the general disinterest of the Testificates.

 

Simon reassures him anyway. “You’re good, mate, you’re good. See? Just business, they don’t give a crap.”

 

“Sorry,” Honeydew mumbles sheepishly. “Bad habit.”

 

“They want us to what?” Lewis interrupts, and the dwarves both start at his vehement tone. A flurry of honking ensues, but Simon catches only bits and pieces, none substantial enough to explain the apparent situation.

 

“Christ on a bike,” Lewis mutters when the Testificates finish. “And what, they’re here now? For fuck’s sakes…”

 

“Care to share, dear?” Simon asks.

 

“Just tell them to wait.” Lewis waves off the Testificates before addressing Simon.

 

“So you remember that start-up we wanted to shoehorn in for committee review?”

 

Simon takes a beat to jog his memory. “Oh yeah yeah, we met with the uhh… Valentines, right? From uh… ‘eek’ something or other.”

 

“EchoCals.”

 

“Yeah, that. What about ‘em?”

 

“Well apparently they severely underestimated their initial loan and are short nearly five hundred grand of completion.”

 

“Aw what? The cool sonar thingy, right? That was well fit, what’re they gonna do?”

 

“Well,” and here Lewis kneads his forefinger and thumb into his eyes, “they’ve apparently got it in their heads we might foot the bill. Again.”

 

“And why not?” Simon says.

 

“Simon-”

 

“What? We make that much in a week, we can afford it.”

 

“It’s the principle of the matter!” Lewis says. “We had a strict contract. We can’t just go out handing money to every hairbrained scheme-”

 

“If I remember correctly, _you_ were the one who wanted to get them in at the Expo in the first place, hm?”

 

“ _Simon_ -”

 

“Lewis, c’mon. They have a great idea and you know it. And you saw what they’d already got done. Bloody geniuses if you ask me.”

 

“Yes but-”

 

“Look,” Simon says, grown a tad impatient, “if you don’t at least hear ‘em out today, then I’m writing a check for a million and walkin’ ‘em to the bank myself t’cash it.”

 

Lewis inhales deeply through his nose, exhales on a frustrated sigh.

 

At length, he says, “You’re infuriating, love, and entirely the reason this damn company will go bankrupt one day.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to your two thousand pound champagne.”

 

“I - what - it was our _wedding_ , you _git_ ,” Lewis splutters.

 

“You spent two grand on bubbly?” Honeydew says, asserting his presence amidst the clamor of their lover’s quarrel.

 

“Per bottle,” Simon confirms.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Lewis throws his hands up in defeat. “Fine, I’ll see what they’ve got to say, but I’m not making any promises.”

 

“Do I need to come with and make sure you play nice?”

 

“Absolutely not, dear.”

 

“Fair ‘nuff.” Hands to his hips, Simon huffs and looks about the deserted hallways. “Well, think Dew’n I’ll head up, then. Make some lunch. You want anything special when you’re done? I can get some champa-”

 

“Oh bugger off,” Lewis grumbles, unable to maintain his petulance, though, as Simon pulls him down into a parting kiss.

 

“Love you, too, angel.”

 

With a blush and a bemused smile, Lewis turns from the elevators in the direction the Testificates disappeared, and it’s all Simon can do to stop himself from whistling to get a last rise.

 

“Well, we got free reign of the castle,” he says to Honeydew as he jams a thumb to the lift button. “You wanna try and make something stupidly complicated for foods?”

 

Honeydew doesn’t respond, staring distantly after the space Lewis has left in his absence, and Simon waves a hand in front of his slack expression.

 

“Hullo? Earth to me, everything good?”

 

“Wuh?” Honeydew blinks back to himself, as though surprised he’d left at all. “Yeah, yeah, was just thinkin’ a moment. I’m fine.”

 

“Yeesh, don’t go doing that, mate. Bad for the brain.”

 

Honeydew chuckles

 

“Noted, pal.”

 

*

 

From an objective standpoint, he is well and truly fine, tagging alongside Xephos and Simon’s various activities where he can, passing afternoons alone in the flat when they have engagements outside the Lab. He watches the city during these long, dull stretches, seeking to relax his mind to the thrum of quotidian monotony playing out between the skyscrapers. When he knows Torsten is out of office, he takes the occasional constitutional through the arboretum on the Level 1, it being the only place he can bask in an approximation of fresh air as the possibility of him actually leaving the Labs poses yet too much risk. He tries very hard not to let the fact that it is where Xephos and Simon held their wedding reception bother him, a feat rather difficult as Simon - during their first visit to the gardens - took it upon himself to point out every fountain and shade tree he and Xephos snogged by.

 

All the same, pressing issue only ever seems to arise when looms the expectation of a scan or blood test or whatever Lalna means to attempt by way of medicine. This, Xephos takes note of with careful inquiries to his health while Simon pokes fun to alleviate unease. For his part, Honeydew tries not to let on anymore than he can endure - that he thinks his friends can endure.

 

Despite his best efforts, though, it’s impossible to shake the strangeness of how quickly he’d acclimated to routine after that first, harrowing morning. Something lingers almost perverse about it - he balks at calling it guilt, but all the same... And elusive to its roots, it’s impossible to grasp in the hopes of uncovering explanation, rankling just beyond reach until he can do naught but weather the anxiety it brings. Taken form in lonesome insomnia at night, as listless energy throughout the day, an oft perpetual lump in his throat as though tears may burst at any wrong blink… all it is, in the most concrete form his addled mind can supply, is strangeness. Even with his meager arsenal of ‘knowings’ - the slapdash jigsaw of misremembered everythings he only rarely attempts to parse - there is no place for this displacement. It occupies a discomfort all its own, irksome sans any means to an end, and it fills his days, passes time with him indiscriminate of whether or not he’s in the company of Xephos and Simon. He tries to make peace with it, tries to match it with his ‘knowings’, and when that fails, pits them against each other, all to no avail.

 

Then Xephos’s suggestion of this Joakim person provides a welcome monkey wrench to the mix - welcome, that is, inasmuch as Honeydew vaguely considers its implications that morning. As the day wears on, however - breakfast then Girlfriend Island then lunch - each ticking hour brings a new wave of worry and questions, all of which Honeydew bites back for the sake of his friends and his own sanity. Simon, bless him, proves a more commendable distraction than usual, nattering away about frivolous nothings as they sit down to sandwiches, then something about those Valentine people - investors, _whatever_ \- then back to nothing again.

 

It isn’t until Honeydew catches his double’s wary eye he realizes these ‘nothings’ are a flimsy front easily belied by the lines etching faint concern at Simon’s brow.

 

“Alright,” Honeydew sighs, setting down his sandwich to provide full attention. “Out with it.”

 

“Just wondering how you’re holdin’ up, you seem a bit out of it,” Simon says, forgoing preamble which Honeydew silently thanks him for

 

Still not keen to dive headfirst, however, he somewhat stalls in his own response.

 

“Didn’t get a whole lotta sleep last night,” he explains with a shrug. “Thinkin’ I might take Lal up on those valerian whosits.”

 

“Oof, don’t, mate, it’s just knock off valium.”

 

“Both start with v’s right? What’s the harm.”

 

They share a chuckle, but the mirth is short lived.

 

“I mean if y’really need something…” Simon says, chewing at his lip. “I know Lew doesn’t mind getting up. Just sorry I’m not there to cuddle y’back to beddy-by, myself.”

 

“Bugger off, y’git.”

 

“Only if y’ask nicely.”

 

Again, the moment dithers as their levity struggles to gain footing, and this time, Honeydew lets it plummet.

 

“Guess I’m - I’m pretty scared for something to actually start happening,” he says quietly and taps a finger to his temple. “You know, up here and all.”

 

“You mean with Rythian, right?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I get that, mate, but he’s a smart guy, maybe a little blunt at first but an all around decent bloke.”

 

“No, yeah, I’m sure he’s fine. I just - I just hate being such a bother.”

 

“Hey now,” Simon reaches over and squeezes Honeydew’s shoulder. “It’s not like y’asked for any a this t’happen. Rather you here than… not, I guess. I mean it’s gotta be better than whatever was before, right?”

 

“If it was anything at all,” Honeydew mutters into his beard.

 

Simon fixes a curiously amused expression. “Well it’d had t’ve been, silly bugger. How else would y’know Lew - eh - Xephos?”

 

“S’pose.”

 

“I mean,” persists Simon, now taken on a cheeky tone of voice. “I’ll admit my money’s still on Lal uploading you wrong or whatever but…”

 

“Real lotta confidence that gives me, mate,” Honeydew grumbles, and Simon grins.

 

“I’m just messin’. We’ll figure it out and show you it ain’t nuffin’ to be worryin’ about so much.”

 

Sighing heavily, Honeydew allows a brief glimmer of hope to lift his spirits.

 

“Sure hope you’re right,” he says.

 

“I’m always right,” Simon replies.

 

“Oh but, can you do me a favor,” Honeydew asks.

 

“Sure sure, what’s up?”

 

“Just…” Honeydew fights a rising flush of embarrassment, abashed for reasons he can’t make sense of. “Can you not tell Xeph any of this? He’s got enough on his plate, and I don’t wanna stress him out on top of Lal’s bullshit and all.”

 

“Wasn’t planning to,” Simon says. “But you’ve got my word. And hey, just so we’re clear, you can always come t’me for stuff like this. No judgement, Dew.”

 

“Thanks, mate, ‘preciate it.”

 

In the grand scheme of his turmoils, the conversation solves comparatively little, but he’s grateful for the support and security of its discretion, and the day plods on weighing considerably less on his shoulders. Xephos eventually returns from his meeting with the Valentines sporting less of an attitude which gives way to playful banter as Simon gloats his success over convincing him to grant the funds. No further mention is made of Lalna or Rythian, Simon assumes a perfectly aloof distance from their heart to heart, and the normalcy is so _damn_ strange, but for the first time since it has plagued him, Honeydew doesn’t mind.

 

*

 

Sunday encroaches with unceremonious gravity, and despite initially convincing himself everything will work out fine with Lalna, little does this actually assuage Lewis’s nerves. He believes the man will come to his senses, at most within two or three days of their little spat, but as the week expires and conviction turns to hope, then hope to thinly veiled desperation, Lewis has to accept the most inevitable outcome. None of it is made any easier by Lalna’s petty behavior, the scientist practically barricading himself in his lab and allowing no contact. For five days, Lewis only briefly glimpses him from the hallway security feeds, and his comm remains dead silent. By Saturday afternoon, Lewis is well tempted to force entry into the lab and demand Lalna explain his little charade. He doesn’t, of course, but the sentiment embitters his mood to a precarious boiling point, all of it spilling over when Simon and Honeydew innocently inquire after the scientist’s reclusive absence.

 

“If I _knew_ what his deal was, do you really think I wouldn’t tell you?”

 

He regrets the words before he’s even finished spitting them at the dwarves’ faces, but his pent up ire overrides his better sense, and he’s left with the aftermath of one very stern husband and his clone who wears an asynchronous expression Lewis guiltily recognizes as fear.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, chastened. “I - I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“Better not’ve,” Simon sniffs, crossing his arms and eyeing Lewis over with derisive scrutiny.

 

“I’m just… dealing with a lot.”

 

“So’re we, Lew, doesn’t mean you go biting our heads off.”

 

“Of course not, you’re right, of course, and I - I’m sorry, just -”

 

“Just quit it with your ‘justs’ and get it out, angel,” Simon says, softer, a bit of a laugh, and the tension staying Lewis’s tongue loosens, his worries spilling out in a flurry.

 

“I just - I want him to cooperate, because I want his help, and I keep trying to look past the fact he caused all this, but, Christ, I could easily use that against him, you know?”

 

“That’d be a real dick thing to do,” Simon replies.

 

“I know, that’s why it’s a last resort -”

 

“Do you think it’ll come to that?” Honeydew pipes up timidly, and Lewis’s vitriol further withers.

 

“I - I don’t know,” he says. “I bloody hope not but-”

 

“But nothin’,” interrupts Simon, “because we ain’t blackmailin’ our friend.”

 

“It’s not -” begins Lewis, but cuts himself off. Because it bloody well _is_.

 

“Mhm,” Simon hums. “You startin’ t’get it now?”

 

Sighing excessively, Lewis sinks into the couch and buries his face in his hands.

 

“Yes,” he mumbles, flushing to the tips of his ears as Simon sits down beside him and drapes an arm across his shoulders.

 

“Yer so cute when y’try bein’ evil.”

 

“Bugger off.”

 

Simon does no such thing.

 

“Dew,” he says instead, “get over here and tell this berk what for.”

 

To his credit, Honeydew maintains his distance - or perhaps he’s still afraid Lewis will lash out again. The thought ties knots in his stomach, and Lewis looks up and motions him to the cushion at his right.

 

“C’mere, friend. I’m sorry…”

 

Cautiously, Honeydew takes the seat, folding his hands neatly in his lap and offering a half smile as Lewis pats his knee.

 

“This temper tantrum ringin’ any bells?” Simon asks, effectively dispelling the moment’s more burdensome awkwardness.

 

Honeydew snorts. “Thankfully, no.”

 

Lewis sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

 

“Well…” he says without much idea where else to carry the sentence.

 

Ever the boisterous wordsmith, Simon takes the podium.

 

“Well, y’did give him till tomorrow, right? Chances are he’s dickin’ with ya till last minute.”

 

“You’re probably right,” grumbles Lewis, and he hunches forward, elbows to his knees, chin propped in one palm as he nibbles the thumb of his other hand.

 

“Am always right, angel,” Simon chuckles.

 

“Do, uh, d’you think we can come with tomorrow,” Honeydew asks. “Whenever you’re goin’ t’meet him. Bit anxious, myself.”

 

“Oh yeah, and we can step in if you two start pullin’ hair,” adds Simon, elbowing Lewis’s side and earning a glare.

 

“Honestly,” Lewis huffs, “it’ll be fine, but… if you want to, I guess, by all means.”

 

“Great!” Simon punctuates the exclamation with a smack to Lewis’s back that sends him into a mild coughing fit, begrudging smile to match.

 

“Now,” he continues, “let’s do somethin’ fun, get our minds off that bugger.”

 

“We could do a walk through the arboretum,” Honeydew suggests. “I… I really like ‘em, the gardens.”

 

“Ah, mate, that’s well cutesy, but wait till we get y’out to the mountains, get some diggin’ going.”

 

“Until then,” Lewis says, amending his composure as he stands from the couch, “I think the gardens sound lovely.”

 

He extends his hands, and helps both dwarves to their feet, letting go Honeydew’s grip but squeezing Simon’s just a bit tighter.

 

“I’ll whip up somethin’ good for dessert, later, too,” Simon says as they make their way to the elevator.

 

“I’ll be right spoiled by tomorrow,” Lewis chuckles.

 

“Lemme guess, though,” Honeydew says. “Jaffa upside down cake?”

 

“Actually no but -”

 

Lewis groans, “ _Please_ don’t give him ideas,” and Simon clicks his tongue.

 

“Now, angel, you never know how good it’ll be till y’try it.”

 

“That was my philosophy with you, dear,” Lewis rebukes. “And look where that’s got me.”

 

“Exactly!” Simon effuses, feigning ignorance to the gibe. “Jaffa upside down cake it is, then.”

 

“Bloody awful peas in a pod,” Lewis sighs, inwardly relieved by their ever tenacious mirth.

 

The gardens provide a soothing tranquility, the three of them taking time to meander every stone path through the perfumed air and lush flora. The late evening sun shimmers undulating rainbows along the vaulting glass walls and roof, and, ignoring Lewis’s protestations, Simon wrenches an elephant ear from its unassuming pot with a shower of soil, props its stem to his shoulder, and angles its expansive leaf overhead as a makeshift parasol.

 

“Don’t wanna burn me supple dwarven complexion,” he croons, batting his eyelashes.

 

“Oi,” Honeydew snickers. “What about me, then?”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Lewis admonishes as Simon reaches for a second leaf, interposing himself between his husband and the poor, harassed plant.

 

“And just let him suffer? Mighty cruel’a you, dear.”

 

“I’ll take my chances.”

 

“Glad you’re makin’ decisions on my behalf,” Honeydew huffs but, with a surreptitious sidestep, sneaks behind Lewis and tears out his own leaf, twirling it triumphantly overhead.

 

“Oh you little git,” Lewis chastises. “If you’re _quite_ done destroying these lovely plants-”

 

“Can’t deny we look proper adorable,” Simon interjects, linking his and Honeydew’s arms.

 

Lewis raises a challenging eyebrow. “If I hadn’t a clue how shit you both are, I might say as much.”

 

Simon brandishes the ‘v’ of his index and middle fingers, and Lewis laughs.

 

“C’mon then, I wanna see how the apiary’s getting on.”

 

“Of course you would, honey.”

 

Lewis does not deign to indulge the pun, so Simon contents himself to a shared giggle with Honeydew before directing their trio onward at a marching pace, his overhead leaf swaying with each step. They make several other stops after the beehives, and Simon, as always, manhandles the cacti along the southern wall, this time earning a deep gouge from the saguaro clambering its way up the glass.

 

“Yeesh, bad prick, that,” he says.

 

Without missing a beat, Honeydew says, “I beg your pardon,” and Simon practically wheezes.

 

After tending Simon’s mild injuries, they make their way to the center atrium where sits the grand piano from their reception, and Lewis perches on its bench, attempting a few tunes much to the amusement of his companions. He’s rusty, doesn’t practice much these days, but manages a somewhat mournful piece before Simon declares him a downer and shoves him aside to plink out chopsticks. By the time the sun dips low enough outside to trigger the ambient lights, they’ve all three worked up an appetite so retire from the expedition, flushed from the humidity and their shared amusements, and, in such amendable spirits, Lewis even suggests a bottle of wine with dinner.

 

“Just make sure it pairs with jaffas and you’re golden,” Simon says.

 

“We’re not just having biscuits,” Lewis says.

 

“Mm, we’ll see about that, angel.”

 

In fact, Lewis ends up burning his first attempt at a stir fry, and by the time they’ve eaten the second, it’s pushing 10, so, after some convincing, Simon abandons the idea of a ‘jaffa upside down cake’ in favor of the biscuits plain with tea.

 

“Some other time, love,” Lewis reassures as they cuddle up on the couch, Honeydew assuming his station at the bay window.

 

“It’s gonna be awesome,” Simon yawns, and Lewis kisses the top of his head, smiling into the curls of his hair.

 

“Sappy buggers,” Honeydew mumbles.

 

“Feel free t’get in any time, mate.”

 

“Think I’m good.”

 

Simon chuckles, “Suit yourself,” and pulls a much surprised Lewis into a kiss.

 

“Right, that’s me, then,” Honeydew says, his embarrassment audible as Simon refuses to break the embrace.

 

“ _Mm_!” Lewis struggles to shove his rather persistent husband away, but succeeds just before Honeydew ducks out the living room.

 

“Sorry, friend!” He calls sheepishly. “You don’t have to go, Simon’s just being a git.”

 

“Never said he had t’go, either,” Simon adds.

 

“No no, s’okay,” Honeydew says, sounding and looking a bit harrassed. “I’m tired anyay.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Well,” Lewis gives a timid half smile. “Goodnight, then, pal.”

 

“G’night.”

 

Honeydew disappears round the moulding corner into the hallway, his departure punctuated by the soft click of the guest room door closing, and Simon wastes no further time in being absolutely abhorrent.

 

“You’re _absolutely_ abhorrent,” Lewis manages to say against his lips as he’s pulled in for another kiss.

 

“Tell me ‘bout it,” Simon murmurs, wandering his mouth to Lewis’s jaw, earning a sharp inhale as he nibbles light bruises.

 

“I j-just did, you idiot.”

 

“Maybe so,” Simon says, and leans away to admire the modest mess he’s made of Lewis’s neck.

 

Feeling terribly exposed, Lewis hugs his arms to himself and pouts his chin to his chest.

 

“What’re you looking at,” he mumbles.

 

“You,” Simon answers plainly, and kisses his downturned nose.

 

“Horrible,” Lewis admonishes.

 

“Adorable,” Simon coos, and kisses Lewis a third, less insistent time, letting him take initiative and relax into his own pace.

 

Soon, that pace finds traction, fervor, hums and sighs, and Lewis has to bite his lip as Simon works a knee between his thighs.

 

“W-we really shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs.

 

“Not here?”

 

“I - I mean, we shouldn’t -”

 

“What, y’think Dew’ll hear us?”

 

Lewis goes decidedly quiet, and Simon has the audacity to snort.

 

“Aw, angel, you’re loud but not _that_ loud.”

 

“Oh we’re _definitely_ not now,” Lewis says, and bustles up from the couch in a huff.

 

Simon springs up beside him, grinning.

 

“Don’t give me that look,” Lewis accuses.

 

“Haven’t a clue what y’mean, love,” Simon says, rocking on his heels, hands clasped innocently behind his back.

 

“No means no, _dear_.”

 

“I’n’t say nuffin’, _angel_.”

 

“Your _this_ -” he gestures to the whole of Simon’s smug expression, “- says it all.”

 

“Oh does it now? S’it say how bad I wanna su-”

 

“ _Shut it_!” Lewis scrambles to clasp a palm over Simon’s mouth, his face aflame, but Simon deftly grabs his wrist and insteads yanks him down into another kiss.

 

“Yer so bloody cute, y’know that?” He says when Lewis manages to wrest himself away again.

 

“And you’re a menace,” Lewis mutters, hiding a smile in his hand.

 

“Mmhm, guilty as charged.”

 

A beat in which Lewis struggles to contain his amusement, but then thoughts wander to Honeydew, and he sighs.

 

“We really shouldn’t,” he says to a patiently waiting Simon.

 

“Not the same as can’t,” Simon says with a scholarly air.

 

“Yes but -”

 

“Oh screw your ‘buts’, love -” Simo pauses to share a snicker with himself as Lewis glowers, “- I just wanna relax ya a bit before tomorrow. What’s a dwarf gotta do t’bang around here?”

 

“Firstly, not say shit like that.”

 

“Fair ‘nuff.”

 

Another beat.

 

“So…”

 

“Oh for bloody’s sake,” Lewis laughs, accepting defeat. “Fine, fine, you win.”

 

“Well jeez, don’t want it _that_ bad if yer not up for -”

 

“No no, not what I meant,” Lewis says, much too quickly, and Simon’s smile ratchets up to veritably vainglorious.

 

“Awright,” he chuckles, hands to his hips as he cocks his head, “what’re your _stipulations_ , angel.”

 

Swallowing a vengeful retort, Lewis manages to reply, “Just nothing too… intense.”

 

Simon gives a thumbs up and a curt nod - “Blowjob, got it.” - and Lewis briefly considers the merits of sinking through the floorboards. Or pitching himself out the bay window. Or Simon.

 

He settles on allowing his deviant of a husband to lead him to their bedroom, all the while trying to recall the blueprints of their flat, though he glimpsed woefully little during its construction. Because maybe, _maybe_ he’ll at least have the thickness of the walls on his side. Maybe.

 

-

 

Spirits are high the following morning, Lewis well rested for the first time this week, and Honeydew lets on to nothing that implicates the prior evening’s activities. Sworn to secrecy on pain of death, Simon is similarly docile, though pinches Lewis’s backside several times as he prepares breakfast.

 

“So, dearest,” he says, innocuously perching himself at the island where Honeydew has contented himself to dicing tomato. “You wanna go over whatever you’re gonna say to Rythian? Y’know, workshop it a bit. Cuz you’ll probably wanna let Lal know, y’know?”

 

“There’s not a lot quite planned out yet,” Lewis says over his shoulder, somewhat distracted trying to get a pan of scrambled eggs to just the right consistency.

 

He succeeds and dishes out three servings, and Honeydew garnishes them with the tomato as Lewis joins them at the island.

 

“I’m going to tell him about Janus first and foremost, I know he won’t let word slip. And just… we’ll just have to let the conversation go from there. I can’t see a damn right way to do this.”

 

“Can’t script the insane, eh?”

 

“Mm…”

 

“Not - not that we mean that about you, friend,” he says to Honeydew.

 

“You worry too much, mate,” the dwarf replies amicably. “Good eggs, by the way.”

 

Lewis relaxes into a smile. “Thanks.”

 

“And - and he’d find out anyway at the Expo,” he continues his tangent, musing aloud helping ground his spinning ideas quite effectively. “So what’s the harm a little bit earlier?”

 

“What’s that exactly,” Honeydew asks. “This expo thingy. Y’keep bringin’ it up.”

 

“Surely we’ve told you, friend?”

 

Honeydew shakes his head. “Nope. All I know’s it’s some huge nerd science fair.”

 

“Yep, then we definitely told you,” Simon says, “because that’s literally all it is.”

 

“It is _not_ ,” Lewis huffs as the dwarves share a laugh.

 

“Angel, issa bunch’a nerds one upping each other with their gadgets.”

 

“Those gadgets,” Lewis says with an accusing air, “just so happen to help millions of people.”

 

“Yeah and got us that four mill grant our first showcase. Lotta money wrapped up in that charity.”

 

“Yes, well,” Lewis flounders for a retort. “We can’t bloody well benefit the community on pittance, can we?”

 

“Sure, sure,” Simon leans back and folds his hands behind his head. “And how’s clones helping exactly?”

 

“If perhaps you could look beyond the puny scope of your presumptions, dear, you’d see there’s plenty this research has the potential for.”

 

“Aw’right aw’right,” Simon chuckles and waves a hand at Lewis. “Don’t get tetchy on me, mate, I’m just messing.”

 

“Bugger,” Lewis mutters.

 

“So it’s _literally_ an adult science fair,” Honeydew says.

 

“Yep,” Simon says. “Every four years.”

 

“And it’s comin’ up soon, huh?”

 

Simon nods.

 

“So we have a lot of catching up to do,” Lewis sighs. “Another reason we really need Rythian’s help.”

 

“Then we make that well and clear to Lal,” Simon says. “They got the best spread, and I ain’t missing out on those shrimp.”

 

“I think your jacket pockets wouldn’t mind a reprieve, dear.”

 

“Oi, ain’t none’a your business, that. If I wanna snitch some hors d'oeuvres, I’m bloody well gonna.”

 

“You steal shrimp,” Honeydew deadpans.

 

“What can I say, mate, they’re heaven.”

 

Breakfast continues without ceremony, though Lewis’s nerves take it upon themselves to pool squirming discomfort in his stomach until he’s forced to abandon his eggs in favor of his thumb, much to the concern of his company.

 

“Sorry, friends,” he says. “Just - just don’t like waiting around like this.”

 

“Who says we gotta?” asks Simon. “Why not just go down there and get it over with?”

 

“Well, I told _him_ to let me know by today.”

 

Simon snorts. “Really think you’re makin’ this worse for yourself than it has t’be cuz that’s a stupid technicality.”

 

“Is it?” Lewis asks meekly.

 

“Uh, kinda yeah,” Honeydew says.

 

“Right, then,” Simon jumps down from his chair. “Get up you two, we gotta mad scientist to tell what for.”

 

“What, now?” Lewis says.

 

“You bet, angel. Ain’t gonna get done otherwise.”

 

“Yeah, guess you’re right,” Honeydew agrees, and follows Simon’s lead.

 

They both stare expectantly at Lewis who caves with a groan.

 

“Fine, fine, but I can’t promise anything if he gets hostile.”

 

“That’s what you got us for.”

 

Lewis snorts. “Thanks, dear.”

 

Their trip to the lab is far too quick, though Lewis manages to grab and release Simon’s hand several dozen times, finally squeezing it far too tight when they come to a halt outside the lab.

 

“Ow, love,” Simon jokes.

 

“Sorry,” Lewis mutters, and lets go.

 

“So uh, how’s this work,” Honeydew says, gesturing to the chrome panel door. “We get some TNT or-?”

 

“Intercom, friend,” Lewis says with a hint of a laugh, because of course he would suggest that.

 

“Right,” Simon says, reaching on his toes for the security panel, and before Lewis can stop him, yells as loud as he can, “Open up, mate! You got some explainin’ t’do!”

 

A crash echoes from somewhere inside the lab, and Lewis winces as Simon recoils from the panel.

 

“Er… oops.”

 

Honeydew cuffs the back of his head. “Git.”

 

Further chastisement goes undelivered as the door slides open and a breathless, wild eyed Lalna all but launches himself at their party.

 

“What? What’s wrong? What do you mean?”

 

They all three take a step back, though Lewis feels an immense satisfaction seeing the scientist in such disarray.

 

“Nothing,” he explains coolly. “Simon here just thought he’d get the jump on you.”

 

“I - what?” Lalna blinks hard several times, repeats the question. “What?”

 

“You had until today to consider my proposal, remember?”

 

Relief rolls off Lalna’s haggard posture in tangible waves, and he seems to realize the aggression he’s implying with it. Within the moment, he’s taken on a far less frazzled appearance, save his bloodshot eyes adorned by shadows and the general greasy mop of his hair. Altogether, it almost makes up for his week’s worth of bullshit.

 

“Yeah,” he says, voice ragged as though he’s not slept in an age. “I remember.”

 

“Good, well,” Lewis crosses his arms “Mind if we come in and discuss it?”

 

“We?”

 

“Yes,” Lewis gestures to his company. “ _We_.”

 

Lalna takes a half step back, shaking his head.

 

“Ah, um, no, sorry, Lewis, I - I can’t deal with that right now.”

 

“The bloody hell you on about?”

 

Lalna continues shaking his head. “Sorry, it’s too complicated.”

 

“You alright, mate?” Simon asks. “Look a bit peakish.”

 

“I - I haven’t slept much,” Lalna admits.

 

“And what’s that got to do with Simon and Dew joining us?”

 

“N-nothing,” Lalna stutters. “I just - can, can I just talk with you? Please? Nuh-nothing against you two, this is just… really, really confusing and -”

 

“ _Blimey_ , alright, mate,” Simon sighs. “Don’t have a conniption.”

 

“Sorry,” Lalna mumbles. “It’s… it’s been a rough few days.”

 

“Yer one to talk, but whatever,” Simon says.

 

“Nah, don’t worry,” he continues as Lewis makes to protest. “Don’t wanna turn this into a stink. Just fill us in later, yeah? Think we’ll give that jaffa cake a try in the meantime.”

 

“I, well, I mean, if you’re sure?”

 

Simon gives a thumbs up. “Yeah it’s all good. Right, Dew?”

 

Though Honeydew looks apprehensive, he agrees, and Lewis makes a silent pact to wring every last detail from Lalna, if only for Honeydew’s sake.

 

“Right, well.” Simon claps his hands. “We’ll be off then, I guess. Don’t take all day and… don’t kill each other either.”

 

“I’ll try,” Lewis says, and Lalna mumbles something under his breath.

 

“See y’inna bit, angel.”

 

“Right.”

 

With that, the dwarves depart, and Lewis waits until they’ve re-entered the elevator before whirling around to face Lalna.

 

“You better have a damn fucking good explanation for all this,” he bristles.

 

“I - I - yes, of course, I just - this isn’t something that -”

 

Lalna inhales deeply through his nose, mashing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 

“Let’s not do this out here,” he says.

 

“Fine,” says Lewis curtly, shoving past Lalna and into the lab.

 

With the crash they’d heard earlier, he expects a mess of glass somewhere, but such evidence is impossible to locate amidst the absolute clamor the lab has thrown itself into - all of which is, strangely, paperwork, veritable reams of it stacked and torn and crumpled on every available surface.

 

“What the bloody hell’ve you been doing?” He asks as Lalna shuffles up beside him.

 

“Running numbers,” the scientist answers. “A lot of them,” he adds with some consideration.

 

“Any of it help get your head out of the clouds?” Lewis snits.

 

Lalna sighs, his shoulders slumping.

 

At length he says, “We need to talk. I - I need to talk to you about something, okay? About - about Janus.”

 

Lewis provides incredulous attention, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“I - I’ll do it,” says Lalna slowly. “I’ll let Rythian help, but only under one condition.”

 

The audacity lands like a blow - as if he has _any_ right to demand an ultimatum - but Lewis swallows his disdain.

 

“I’m listening,” he says through tight teeth, and he does, but nothing, _nothing_ prepares him for what Lalna says next.

 

“I’ll work with him," Lalna repeats, and stares Lewis cold in the eyes. "But only if you let me grow Simon again, and _only_ if you keep it between us.”


	10. I̦͙̳͙͔ṉ̞̳̪̖d̫̱ḙ̥̮̰̹t̗̠̼̱͠e͍͟r̦̤̜̼̹m͓̺͝i̻̜̰n͔̫̝̗̱͇̟a̷̦͚̯t̵̝̰͇̬̙e̼

Oh the corrosion.

 

Ah devestations.

 

But lacked of it solipsistic  

 

no matter 

 

no matter no matter 

 

no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no matter no ma̢͉̪͉̰̩t̥͖̟̞͈͔̯ṭ̙̙̼͢e̗̹̰r ̷̙n̪͚͓o͍̳̪̙͕͖͞ͅ ̝̼̲ͅm̻̫͔̟a͢t͍̭̪̫͇͢ͅte͇͉̤͘r͟ ̹̻̤n̴ǫ͔͚͚̹̫ ̨̻̣͙̪̰m̺̰̖͓ͅat̢̟̥̺t̗̠̳͕̲͖̙͢e̜̭͕̹͔̹ͅr̭ ͎̩̣̠̭n͕͕̼o͖͙ͅ ͎̙̺̩m̴̙͖̮̳̤̣̣ạ͍͈̙͎̭̤t̬̮͍̺͉t̠̻ẹ͈̦̲r̰ ̩̻̖̝̲̘̲n͓͎͇̩o͍̬ ̣̘m̴͔̻̙a̺̤͘ͅṱ̵̭̬̮͎͇t̴̥̤͙̺e͖̖̺̬r̟̖̙͎ ̘̮̭̻̳͈n͉̫o̫ ̮͍̺̙͈̖̤͡ma̯͉̜̕tţ̘̠̩̝̲e͕͇̯̘r͎̥ ̴͍̟̻̝͔̳n̶̗̲o̩͍͉̮͚͠ ҉̬m̠̪̹̟a͎̙̩̰̮͎͞ț̡ͅţ̯͈̟̱̳̮̗e̹͖̮̯͖͔͞r̞̭͚̞͓̲ͅ ̴͍̻n̗̳̲̣͇o͉̪ ̴͔̖̬m̖͇͍̳̻͉̕a̞͇̖̫t̖̳̳̦̲̞t̻͚̭̰̙͉e̪͕̭ͅŗ̼͍̠͎͉̤͙ ̢no̢̹͎̗̱̣ ̶̝̝̬̪̟̻m͕͘at̖̗̰̘̘̻̬ṭ̤͕̣̗̗ẹ̘̭͍̞ͅr̵͚̦̜͇͎͔ ̛̮n̵ͅo̴̜̤̹̲̥͚̹ ̘̪͓m̟a͎̺͕ṱ̶͖̭t̪̣̦̲͓͔̻̕er ̜̮͓̹͉n̻̰̦͍̻̳̘ǫ͍͖̪̻͉ ̻̬̺͔̯̼m̥͠a̬̤͚̦̮͝t̩̥͎̗̖t̗̹͇͉͍̗e̲̗r̶̭ ̘͚̥͔̹̠̬͜n͕͍̰̫̻̟o͙̼̞͙ ̬̰̱͓͓̟̗m̵a͖̦ͅt̪t̬͕͚̩̫̲͠e͕̫̜͙̻̼ͅr͎ ͕̱n͇o͔̟̖̺̱̦͖͟ ͈̙͖m͉̺̣a͍t̰t͏̱e̥͈͚̰͕ͅr ͏̤͍̜̙̣n̸̲̟̦̖͎o̝̲͈̤ͅ ҉̜m̡a͔̯͎͜t̨̗̻̥͈͔t̰̻̤̹̩e̟͕͚̹̞͔r͉͍ ҉̟̻̹͔̖̘̩n̴͍̠̩o̦͓̥̤̦ ̨͓̻̰͇m̴ạ̦ͅt̨̪͚͙t̯̗͔̯̦̻͡e̠ṟ̨͕̫̺ ̵̘n̶͈̝̹͈͍̖ọ͙̜̰͍ ̲͙̰̟̥̦̮m̵̩͓̤̰̲̼͎a̭͈̪̤̝̥͉̕t̵̝͔̝̻te̢̬̳̭̦̬̮ͅr̳ͅ ̗͈͕̙̙̩n̤̱̖o͈ ̞̮m̜̭̱̫͚͖̺͠a͏̼ṭ̛te̴̙r̡̰̗͙̳͕͖ ̨͓̪͖̩̼n̷o̵ ͚͔̼̱͓m̜͓͍̬͍͚a̢ṭ̨te̫r̦̜̼̘͍̲ͅ ̶̹n̟o͕̣͙ ̗͔͈̙̕m̞̣a̫̬̼͍͚̺͈͢ṭ̭͘t̗̫͙̠̪͢e̴̲̗̺̭̪r̡̘̞̘̼ a҉͕̬͇̱̫̠͇̻͍͍̯͓͓̬̮̕͞ͅţ̭̣̟͔̭̞̳̙͢ͅt̷͇͇̻̗̳͟͟e̶̗̝̖̖̺͓̕͢ŗ̧͙̤̪͍̰͘̕͡ ̨̧͔̹̟͙͈̺̭͓̣̱̙̩̰̩͘͠ņ̮̭͖̗̣͟o̸̶̫̹̹͙̣̜̜̭̦͔̩̤ͅ ͏̵̛̺̹̺̙̟̩͈̜͓ͅm̷̢҉͓̞̝̱a̸̜̞̩̹̹͘͟t̵̡҉̼̙̝͇̝̯̺̫͓t̴̸̶̝̱͈̺͖̦̤͎͎ͅe̸̷̤͉̣̲̹͕̖͇̜̣͜͜͢r̢̙̖̩͉̫̖͈̲͘ ̶̧̛̲̻̼̣̪̳̞͝n҉̶̬̣̩͓̱͈̹̠͖̼̳͈͎͙̙͈̦̜ͅo̡̡̖͍̖̤̦̪̪̕͟ ͏̮̗̦̣͔̥̬̙͔͙̮͜m̫͓̯̞͖̮͔͎̣͢͝a̛͇̜̫̮̪͓̰̰̹͙̫͖͉̻͕t̸͔̮̱̳͈͙̰͙t̴̢̪̰̠͈̺̪͎̹͚̝̺̝͜ę̡̻̥̣r̵̛̛͈̩͇̮̗̯͘͡ͅ ̴҉̲͓̫͙̫͈͙̙̦͓̺̘̦̼͇̮̻̭͡ͅṋ̝̥͚͘͟͡ͅo̥͚̙͕͚͜ ̸̧͕̮̳͎̺͙̪̜̺m̶̶̧̘͙̮͇̺̦̹͕͓̞͙̭̪̬̳̩̠͡a̷̧̧̢̰̤͚̤̪ţ̵̧̠̯̖̪̜̳̰̬̘̱̼̯͚t̷̨͈̩̜̱̯̲̕e̢̛͉̖͉̳͚̭̰̮r̨̛̘̙̥̲ ̢͏̦͕̞̟͚̗̱̝̥̞̰̮̺n̵̩̜͙͖o̴͔̘̮̠̹̼͉̫̱̮̳̝͈̻͎͍͍͖͝ ̡̛̺͖͍̰͡ͅm̨̜͙̭̘̪̮͈̠̙̙̳̜͈̰̻͉̙͘͠a̢̫̣͔̤̱͇̱̻̳̺̝͈̻̠̫̦̰͚͜t̛̰͚̩̟̭̙̞͘t̸̨̡̝͈̲̞̥̺̖͕̱͜ͅͅe͏̴̸̛̣̗̰̬̙͖͖͚͎̟̗̜̗̬̰͍͜r̡̰͈̺̥͉͉̬̣̩ ̥͈͕̰̫̺̬̜̪̦̺͕͢ͅṉ̛͕̝͕̠̲̰̳̭͍̕͞͞ͅơ͇̭̯͈̩͟ ̷͙̪͔̻͈̱̠͈̦̭̠̞m̱̠̻̤͎̯̣̤̫͘͝ͅa̹̗̞̻̖̖͍͔͡͞t̷̬̝̮̟̪͎̻̫̩̥̬͓͕̠̮͠ͅt̟̫̙̜͘̕͟͢e͏̛͇͔̖͇̗̗͔̪̻͘r̲̗͔̰̝̲͟͝ ̵̸̥̻̬̤͈͔͍̘̦͍̼̳͎͜͡n̡̻͔̼͙̰̞͙͚͝o̧͓̦̝̳͈̰͡ ̵̷͍̹̥̱̤͙͍͢m̵̱͖̻̘̱̞̹͕͙̫͚̠̼͓͟͠͡͡ͅa҉̧͢҉̜̗̖̦̦̪̞͓̪t̰͎͖̯͕̫̲͙͜͞t̷̡͓̥͇̰̣̝̥̜̬̠͕͔͓̞͝͡ͅe̡̬̟̟̦̯͕̜̙̰̯͙̤͇̞͚͇̹̠ͅr̸̛͍̦̘͔̲̜͎͇̫̜̤̝͇͖͚̘̺̕͜ͅͅ ̢͇̦̣̺̣̜̟̪̝̠̘̭̰̩̝͟͡n̸̴͔̱̰̝͞ͅo̳̬̖͔̥̠̺̩͇̦͎̙͝͡͝ ̵͈̱̣͇̘͉̬͖̺̲̤̼̞̪͉͈̮̝̘͞͝m̴̡̜̙̖̱̥̟͍͍̫̤̼̮̝̭̦̤a̷̝͙͉̫͚̗̺̖͉͕̦̼̩̼͞ͅt̶̢͎̟̮̲̝̠t̵̵̻͇̟͕̭̯͕͘e̶͇͓̭̠͖̹̜̙̰͓̞͟͞r̨̛͈̱̰̪͖̱̤̳͔̟̬͖͖̯̠̠͉͘͜͡ͅ ̢̛̗̭͇̫̩̬̺̭͖̯̯̟̹̲͈͘̕͢n͞͏͏̬̱̺̲̖̗̰͉̳̲͚͇̰̩͙ͅo̡̜̭͎̙̼̖̣̠̘̥̤͟ ̡̧̬̮̻̝̪̰̘̹̳̥͢m҉̶̧̲̣̲̺̻͉̘̙͚̫̬͇̣̤̳ͅa̶̧̡̲̯̹̤̞͓͠t҉̕҉̴͇͙̭̞̬̪̖̻͎̠̘̪̼̯t̡̨̪̻̞͙̼̗̙̤̩͕̲͈̙̣͘e͘͏̷̭̼̠̖̰̯̰̮̰̤̰͇̹̼̣͉ͅr̸̡͍̹̩͉̘̳̠̰̹̰͚͚̯̯͍̖͇͍͘ ̡͓̺̞̜͎̳̖͝͡͝n̢͏̘͇̳͈̞̤͙̜̬͈̬͙͖o̧͖̟̦̻̲̩̜̻̟̺̳̭͍̟̮͔͢͜ ̶͏̳͎̮m̢̪͙͔̮̗̻̞͓̭̣̰̕a̡͇̫̱̥̫͘ţ̷̶̞̱̼̖̜͔̞͍ͅt̶̵̹̙͚̰͘͘͠ͅe͝͏̝̝͕̜͎̜̳͔͞r̨̢̛͚͍͖̮͉̬̲̰͎̦̼ ͘͞҉̨̳͚̦͎n͝͡͏͓̲̩̜̳̟͙̟͙͚̙o̷̷̗̘͈̪̜͓͉̣̯̟̖̖͇̳̕͘ 

 

̞͖̞͢͠͞m̵̨̘͓̞̬̲͚̞̮̗̲a̢̨̼̠̯͍̕͢͢t҉̛͇̠̳͈̲͉͚̝̗͖͚͙̟̦͝t̷̸̷̸̺͙͕̰͓̟̼̮̟̺̕e͏̷̦̪̼͔̱̠̼̼̥̹͚͓̫̕r҉҉̴̱̺̼̗̝̞̹͙͎̱͔̫͖͠ ̶̴̣̗͔͙̥̮͔͍̯̣̱̼͇̖̦̯̪n̷̡͔͈̼̱̲̮͢o̴̴̯̟̯̺̟̹͚̱͔̱̟̟̟̬̣͘͡ͅ ̷҉̢̱̫͍̠̖̘̙̪͇͟m̵̺̜̦̹̲͈͘̕͘͟ͅa̵̴̢̜͚̥͈͍͘͞ţ̷̨̜̼̣̻̥͙͓̫̰̠͉͉t̘̺͖̦̱͚̣̼̞͝ͅe̸̵͍̙̻͙͚͓̤͚̼̺̻̟̯͙͟ͅŗ̴̨̛҉̗͖̙͓̝̹͔͉̹̞͖͓ ̲̻͎͖͓̫͇̪̞̜͈͡n̺͓̰͕̮̠͙̖̰̮̠̳͓̩̭̞̻͜͢͠o̺̰̝̘̟͉̮͇̞̳̯̞͍͢͝ ͡͏͙͎̪̝͈͈̙̻̗̝̙͎͚͙̹̘m҉̸͉̥͚̱̝̺a̻̹̙̩͚͚̲͚̤͇͔͉̞̺̤̺͇̠̕t̵͕̲̝t̶̴͉͙̲̺̦͡e̢͟͏͙̩̱̖̲͇͙̖̠̭̻̥̖̪̯̳ͅͅͅr͝͏͙̮̪͖͘͜͝ ̶͍̗͈̻̗̻̻̘͚͈̭̭͍̻̜͙̙ṉ̴̯̥̦̹̘̟̙̕ͅo̡̡̤̹̯̖̱̖͙͓̥͔͎̕͟͡ ̷̟̗̖͞m̵͏͈͖̗͙͍̞̤͍̳͈̪a̸͙͔̘̫̗͖͎͖͓̖̻̦̥ͅͅͅṭ̵̡̮̞͓̰̤͈ţ҉͚̗̺̥͈̪e̡̫̥̹̘͕̫̘̩̼̻̮͎̤̹̪͜ͅr̛̹͎̣̠̯͕͍̬̦͔̭̝̩͍͓̙͍ͅ ̵̧͍͖͇̟͚̥͓̹̟̞̘̬͈̥̩̕͜n̶͜͏҉̶͇̙̘̹̬͚̻̩͓̖̟̱ͅo̴̡̧̢̳̻̥̱̰̻͚̦̳͙̯̲̙̮̠ͅ ̶͏̛̯̼̥͇̬̼̟̬͎̯̳̘̝͝ͅm̸̧̝͓͎͉͈̥a̡͟͡҉͖͇̥̠̤͢t̴̢͡҉͚͚͓̬̪̼̠̙̬͔̺͚ͅt̷̡̗̱̻͙̪e̵̡̨̤̗̼ͅr̶̴̩̹̰̪̯̙̺̝ ̴̙͚̙͎͘͞ṉ̡̠͚̜̠̦͍̺̱̖̺̺̞͓̻̕͠͠o̵̝̩̱̫͍͈̬̜̟̝͔̭̩̜͟ ͡͏̮̞̘͕͓̤̯m̸̱̝̺̣͓̺̞͉̪͓̣̺̭͓̰͖̜͜͟͝a̴̸̭̻͍̣̞̩͘͠t̷̵̢̨̬̳̺̼̹̩͚͡t͓͇͈̯̭̞̪̳̞̠̜͇̥͕͢e̴҉̮̙̜̭̺̝̪͉̦͎̹ͅr̢̬̘͉̣̘̜͉͉̻̲̲̼̭ ̭̮̥̻̗̼̱̩͕͚͚̣̰͉̦̞͢n̷͟͏̩̠͈̱̳̲̺̮̩̣̲͍͎͎o̷͔͔̣̝̰̬̺̖̤̙̱̙̱̺͖͟ ̛͘͡͏͍̭̥̯̲͢ͅͅm͓̟̘̲̟̪̰̘͍̲̺̹̻̫̳͔͜͜ͅa҉͍̺͙̰͍̳̼͓̙̝͞ţ̛͙̜̥͙̗͉̜͖̜͉̤̰̹͓̦͉͘͘t͏̴̻̼̭͚̮͓̤̪͈͓͙̠̕͝e̵̬͉̫̞̦̱̞̭͉̙̦͔̜̳̘͖͢r̺̜̻̱̪͞͠ ̷̷̩̗̹̰̞̺̠̹̠̹̞̻̙̤̬̱̩͜n̢̡̗̳̭͔̼̭̗̰̪͉̥̱̟̕ͅo̷̶̥̥̬͎̣̖̭̩͜ͅ ̸̨̛͔̹̝̘̺̹͕m҉̴͈̙̖̞̺͚͕̦͠͠a̷̬̙̤̠̹̭̩̜̻̗̞̱̫͔̰͜͞͞t͏͏̴̛͔̯̬͈̬͖̥̥̰͍̮̣̱̖̱̰̙͞t̕҉̣̖̟͇͓̟̻̤̯͖̟̖̦͓̩͙̣e̟̦͉͙͇̦̼̲̠̥̬̣̞̪̞͢͢͠r̡̢̧̙͍̭̮ ̷͖͔̭͖͓͉̲̤̗̙̱̼̙̯͇̪̤n̸̷͔̖̝̟̗̗̩̩͠͝o̵̸̢̨̺̹͉̬̺̹͎̳̫̼ ̧̤̩͙̯̻̰̻̖̫͜͟͝m͓̟̰̣̮̹̩̰̦͔̞̟̥͙̖̻̳͘͢a̸̵͏̦̪̭͎̩̣̜͇̮͇̖̣͓̤͈t̷̸̴̢̪̬̜̝̱̖͖̮͇̙̘̣͓̲͠t̢͟҉̗̪̼̣̟̺̬̟͖̜̫̘̮e҉̝̳̪̳͉͔̩̬͞r̷͢͏̜̤̣̣̤̹̪͈̫̫̦͚̲̮̼͙ͅâ̵̴̴̧̡̹̩͖̮͉͖̼͒͂́̓̿ͩ̓̊̏͌̋ͦͬ͐t̡̛̯̝̳ͣ̿̽ͮ̔̉ͣ̚͡ͅͅt̸̸̢̢͖̠̺̩̠̤̮̹͖̦̹̺͖̟͎̣̲͇̰̍ͭ̌ͥ͐̃̒̒͛͆̋ͦ̍̆͟e̳̩̹̗̮̗̮̹͚͖̥͓͈̬͒̂̽̍̌̄̏ṟ̶̗̟̤̭̹̪̎̉̓̓ͩ͊̋͐ͩ̄ͩ̿̍͢ ̷̸̢̡̳̻̹̳̣͎̰̹̥͎̙͎̰̄ͫ͋͂̓͐̃͂̎̂̽̚͟ǹ̸̯̣̪̱͕̤̥̭̹̥̝̼̗̯̖̳ͧ̽́̓̑ͤ̎͝ͅo͕̝̭̮̯͎͍̲͇͖̓̍ͩ͒́̃ͨ̏̽ͨ͑̓̿̉́̊̚̚͟͢ ̛̻͉̣͎̝̯̮̱͈͎̝ͮ̿͆͌͜͝

 

m͂̅͒ͪ̾̋̄ͯ͊͐͛̌͋̽ͪͦ̅ͩ͡͏̜͎͔̜a̗̞̝̮͎̻̰͖̗̫̟̩̞͍͓̅ͣͯͫ̅̒̐͋̈́̒̾ͪ͐͌͌̾͢ͅt̶̸̶̢̺͙̼͙̘̜̰̭̪͉͔̬̫̺̫̩̂̓ͩ͐͑͊ͬͫͤ̑̓ͧ̕ͅtͮ́̔͂̀ͣ͏̷̞̣̯̙̖͇̞͉̟̦̜̪͍̗̰̫̜͟͞ę̸̃̄̓͡͏̙̰̝̯ṟ̸̶̩̜̖͙̦͈̤̖̬̃̋̽̅̒̆̚͘ ̴̷̘͚͔̞̣͙̖̯̥̖͙̮͖̗͈̱̯ͣ̾̊̓ͨ̀ͪ̅̌͌͑ͤ̽ͩͭͣ̐̃nͧ̉̏ͣͯͬ͡͏͎̤͉̤̪̠o̡̟̱̮̠͇̦̗̲͍̯͋ͧ͆ͧ̽͛ͅ ̰͍͉̥̼̟̳̜̭̼͔͒ͮ̍ͥ͆̄̔͂̓̑̆͂̌ͨͨ͝m̨͔̠̼̣͈̳͍͓̗͚͙̬̠͙̭̥͚̤̗͊̐̉̔ͦ͂ͩ̈͒ͫ͝å̴̀̓͑ͯ̏ͦ̈́ͨ̃̂̏̓̍̚̚̚͡҉̵̝̯͎͓̫̰̙͍̬͔̼̗̤̖̫͎͉̳ț̷̷̡̘̫͖̫̻̣̪̭͖̤̦̌̐ͦ͆̄͊̔ͤ̋̆̊̆̈̕t̡̢̧̠̱̬̺̜̻ͤͩ̅ͣ͐͡ę̛͇̤̞̯̹̹̟͉̬̪̙̺̊̾ͮ̂̉r̢̐̇̊ͧͣ̂̋ͫ̍̈̿̑͗͜͝҉̖̮̗͔̥̠͍̪̱̘͙̺̙͎͖ ̶̢̧̝̫̗̦̘̙̦̾͐̏͛̄ņ̵̤͎̘͈̟̼̣̟̱̙̦̞̗̻ͬͩ͋̑͡ͅơ̳͈͉̯̬̾̑́̌̉ͣ̐ͬ̋̎̉͐ͨ̌͞ͅͅ ̃ͥ̒ͦͭͨ̆̿ͣ͝͠҉̞͔̠̲̫̖͍͕͇̞̞̼̙̝͈̙ͅḿ̙̰̺͓͚̲ͣ̃ͤͦͤ̈̓ͨ̊̒̋ą̸̦̠̤̗̺̳͚̰̘̲̖̘̭̼̘ͤͧ̒̌͑ͪͪͣͪͮ̅ͦ͐̐̑̏̊̊ͅt̷̡̨̒̔ͯͥ̍̒͒̐̓͜҉̳͖̪̘̗͔̹̙̣͇̞̖̠ẗ͙̲̗̱̲͚͔̤̈̅̇̑̆ͭ̂ͧ͑̂̈̑͆ͪ͛͠͡͡e̸̢͓̘̬̩̞̟̬̠͉͔ͮ̇͒̊͛ͩ̑̽̑̓̈́̌̃̉ͫ̔̚̚͘͡͞r̡͓͇̹̤͕ͨͩͧͩ͆̓̾͗ͫ̄̓ͦͨ̚̕͜͜ ̧͍͇͙̙̹ͪͦ͆̍̔̎ͩ̇̆̏̓̕n̢̛̲̭̣̯̟̱̣̩̝͕̦̭͙̖̺͇͑̽ͣ̇̉̓̓̍̊ͩ̎̚ǫ̶̸̭͇̬̐͑̿͊̆̒ͩ͛ͨ̓̀ͭ̓̚ ̶̼̼̳̘͓̜̺̰͚̮̰͇̟̿͊̿͊ͬ̑̒ͬ̑̍ͮ̌̊͞ͅm̶̨̪̱͚̭̟̖̞̳̭̗̌ͯ̎̃̋̍͆̓͂̍̀̄̌̅ͧ̀͟͢ȧͤ̓̈͛̎ͨ͌͛̌̂̉̿͑ͫ̇ͥ̚͏̖̳͕̬̖͇͇̥̥̣̟̞͈̳̞͘͜͡͡ẗ̝̰̜̹̫͉͔̟̠̭̱́́̅̆́͒ͦ͑ͩ̉́̑̅̾̈͢͜t̵̷̡̪͍͖̪̘̙͚̙̠̣̳̱̤͙͎͚͕ͨ̓ͮ̍̈ͣ̓̏͡e̵̯̮̖̰̺̘̺ͧ́ͫ̃͐ͫͥͯ͠r̡̥̱͎̰̙̣̙͚ͬ̆ͯ͊̏͒̎̽̉̂̆͋ͯ͂ͣ͛̚͞ͅ ̐̃ͤ̋ͩ͑̈̉ͧ̎ͪ̎̓̑ͭ͘͏͉̫͕͚͚̗̯̭͔͚̪͉̲̞̺̺ͅń̷̴̵͇͎͔̞͑̒̿́͋ơ̧͓̦̝̟ͤͪ͑̾͒͘͞ ̻̪͙̣͉͍̖̺̔̓̈́̾͘͜͟m̎̈́͑ͯ̎͊̉ͤ̄̑̔ͣ̈͝͏̼̖̩̲̼͙̻͖͔̞ͅa̢͉͕̻̦̭̰͕̜̲͖̫̪̪͈ͨ̏͛ͫ͛̓̄̌̉ͤ̄̕͘͢͞ͅt̡͋͗́̂ͣ͊̎̈̅̓ͭ̉͊ͮ̎̉̌̚̚͏̵̖̗̙͙̘͙̪̬͚̲̦͔͔͚̺t̢̹̺̞̩̩̖̞̗͇̥̫̘̣̄ͤ́̏ͧ͒͗̾̉̑̋ͤ̓ͨ̆̈͝͠ͅȇ̾ͤ̚͏̢̼͖̻̠̳r̎̂̏̇̂̉͝҉͎̱͙͈̖̠̰̰ ̡͍̖̳͉͖͈̯͚̮̖͉͛̅ͬͮ͆̀͗ͯͫ͆͢͞n̷̴̋͌ͣͤͬ͌͏̥̙̭͢ǫ̵͉͙̖͚̜̱̱̦̜̗̘͈̱͉͙̞͚ͧ͂̅̔ͤ̏̉̅͌̑̎͞͠ ̡̧̛͇̲͙̟̰̳͇̯̖̪̝̳̅͛͒̆̇̔̎̄̽̅͂̓̇ͤ͢͡m̷̷̛̤̝͉̜̟͈͖̟͕̗̼͖͙̹̥͉͉̪ͯ̒̿̊ͥ̇̓a͂ͤ̈ͮ̌̓̓̑̈́̇̔̿̚҉̢̮͔̦̭̭̠̦͞t̢̤̮͚̤͔̲̘͚͚̗̪͓͖̥͇̳̗ͮ̊́̚͡͡ͅt͖̰̱̘̻̻͍̖͚̱̥̳̣̲̥̟̮̔ͩ͒ͦͭ̎̍̇̓ͨ̔̾̍̿̀͆̚̚͜͡͝͠ͅe̒̓͌̇͗ͬͦͫ̄̂ͣ̎ͭ҉̸̴͢҉̤̳͖̖̪͎͔̥̝̘̻͖̺͖͔̻ͅrͣ̾ͥ̎̉͂͟͢͝͏̞͔̞͈͎̺̰̥̮ͅ ̧͖̹̩͈̠̬̰̻̬̱̞͖̰̪̘͓̝ͬ̍̍̂̑ͯ͌̄̆̍̒ͮͭͭ̇̚ͅͅņ̧̧͙͎͍̝̺͕̖͎ͮ̉ͥ͑̉̃ͪ̒̂̕ȍ̸̹͎̫̭̝̮̪̮͎̘̘̬̠̘̥̜̫̗ͤͪ̌ͩ̂̾͂͂̀̊́̚͟͡ͅ ̶̧̫̗͎̠̠͉̘̞̼̖͐ͩ̿̃͊̎ͦ͒̿ͩ͐ͣ̏̚̚͜m̜̰̯̩͓̰̬ͬ̉ͫ̅ͩ̊͋̾̋ͧ̄̏̐ͬ̍͘̕͞͝aͭ̊̋͒ͯ͊̾̓͆̉͛͒ͥ͒ͭ̐ͨ͊҉̷͖̝̬̦̪̦̬̼̳͙͓͔̲t̵̨͕̳̜̤̾ͥ̇ͩͮͪͣ̚͜͝͠t̴̺̟̞̥̓͐ͤ̎ͮ́͞e̝͖͎͇͇̙̦͕̞͑ͩ́̓̍ͩͮ̓̌ͦ̅ͫ̑͘͜r̷̪͙̗͍͙̜͔͍̖̝̣̤ͣ̐͆ͫͬ̃̂͒͐ͥͫ̉͡ ̊̒ͮ̄͒͗͜͟͡͏͕̙̙̮̼̼̣̞͠ͅn̂ͫ̆̃̈҉̸̧̬̬̙̟̭͙͔͓͈̥͓̗̝͙̬̝ǫ̶̴̥̹̭͖̏̇̆̆̊̍ͬ̊̉̽̈̌̓́ͪ̑ ̨̧̞̬̩̞̞̖̜̤͓͕̭̝͕͉͓̲͒́ͩ̓͛͂ͩ̚͘͜m̠͇̣̰͚͔̟̩͍̮̙̞̿ͦͪ̆̽͘ą̴͌͛̏ͧ̓̒̃͗̈̔̏̊ͬͮ̚͘҉͏̟̞̖̼̠̤͚̼͕̥̪̺̪͚ͅṱ̢̛͚̲̘̻̺͎͎̲̮̣̌ͧͣ̉̌̄̎̌̌̓̿͊͗̓͗tͩ̿͋̐̈́͏̜̰̠͇̥͎̗̺̯̘̳ͅe͈̱̯͙̟̹̪̲͕̟̺̋ͮ̅̿̋ͪ͂̔ͨ͗͞r̡̧͔̟̞̳͚̫̰̟̝̹̫̟͓̮̹̪͇̞̗ͮͨ̇̏ͣ̃ͬ͋̌͐ͭͪͭ͗ͥ ̨̥͔̮͔͙͎͙̬̺̥͔ͪ̂̈ͫ͆̉͒̄͋̋ͣ̈ͥ͛ͅn̤̜͉̫ͮ̆̈͊̎́ͪͪ͘̕o̢̥̤͍̱̯͖̺̱͙͔̟͎͙͂ͣ̋̊̃̒̽͛͘̕ͅ ̡̞̹̼̰͇̯̜͉̜̼̣̹̤̼̪͖͆̋̃̄͆͂ͨ̀̏ͭ͗ͣͦ̾ͩ̋͛͒̚͞͠m̴͇̯̖̮͔̺̫͚͉͕̪̦̪̙̞̖̠͌̀ͦ͐ͮ͐ͦ͗͑̒̄͂a̡̛̘̲̱͈̙̭͚̣ͥ͒̿͒̎ͣͧ̒̒͒̚̕͡t̔̉͗̂ͭͥ̉͝͏̤̺̲͖͎͉̞̩̳̳̖̺̱ͅt̸̴̝̫͓̤̟̥̺͔̦̤̣̞̼̃̒̋ͩ͗͋̆͊ͨͤ̒̑̅̎ͨͮ̎͟͞ͅẹ̷̸̢̰̜̱̘͚̮̞̮̗̜̥̋ͬͦ͆̅ͥ̑̔̒̎͊̐ͦͬͦ̓͢r̈́̉ͭͪ́̍͟҉̬̖̰̭̤̼̲ ̢̯͈̯͖̰͓̼̩͙͎̩͇̦͈͇͓̒̎͌͊̒ͦͣͬͫͯͪ̈́͒̄n̜͙̹̪̗͚̰̲̣͕ͣ̏̋ͯ̽̍̈́ͦ̅́ͭͧͬ͞o̸̵͉͙̹̦̬̙͎ͯ̾͋̀̿ͭ͊͋̋ͤ̎̍̚͢ͅ ̵̧̲͕̬̳̺̘̰̩͎̳͎͙̬̻͉̞̲ͯ̑̇͐͜

  
  


m̢͓̰͍̙͈̪͉̠̻͉̫̓ͮͬ̎̌̔à̴̸̧̬̟͖̻̇̑͆̂̅t̡̢̤̪͇̺͍̦͖͓̰̙̟̼̩̊͛͂̅͋ͧͩͪ̈̓̃̚̕͜t̸̜̺͇͓͖̾͆͊̊̄ͫͨ̆̕͘͝͝ȇ̴̗̺͙̱̖͚̯͖͖̼̇̔͒̏ͧ̕͜ȑ̻̳̪͈͒ͭ̀̽̏́ͥ̓̽̓͟͜ͅ ̢̛̣̝̣̠̰͍̦͔̬̜̠̳̜͇̏̅̈̌̽̂̃ͩ̐ͨ̒ͮ̇ͣͨ͋̽͜͝n̼̥̼̙̩̥͙̙̭̥̞̱̻ͤ̾̀ͩͬ̎̒̒ͥ͊̅̀̽̾̿̑̚͢ͅơ̻̖̦͕̝͖̘̭͎̳̪̫̝̐̽̅ͣͪ̓͊̑ͦͬ͗ͮ̈̓͋ͥ̃̏͜ͅͅ ̶̵̶͈͈̼̰̹͎̮̯̖̟̙̝̣͔̱̹̽̈̌̉͊͐̏̋̃̕͜ͅm̸̸̹͚͙͙̼͍̙̱͕̳̮͕͖̻̜̟̣ͫ̃͐ͥ̿ͧͭ̒ȃ̌̈́ͯͪͤͣ͏̰͚͔̩͉̰̗̻̘̞̠͟t̶̞̳̥͍͇̩̬̞͈͖̟̼̠͉̥ͤ̋̀̓ͩͧ̏̅̉ͬ͋͐͐ͦ̄ͯ̉͒t̴̼͓͓̬͈̺͕̼̟̟̹͍̯͉̯͓̘̪̑͌͋͑ͫ̓̑́̔̎͊̕͝ͅe̸̢̪̳͓̮͇̥̠̝̬̖̜͈͈̭͖̲͗ͬ͆̈͛ͪ̆͛ͦ̆̇̂͊̔̕ͅr̶͉͍̹̭̟̪̙͔̼̺͉̮̦̽̅̏̄ͬ̏̿͐͆ͩ̿͌̋̊̌ͪ̃̒̚͘ ͓̺̲͈̼̺͈̥̠͎̖̊̽̓͑̂̎̆̌ͫ̋̓̐̚͜ņ̪͍̝̜̤̦͔̊̌̈̇͊ͣͣ͌͆ͭ̌͌͘̕͝ö̸́́̒ͪ̉͌̆̈̇́ͧͬ͏̛͖̺̜̼͈̙̺͕̳͎̟̥ ̷́̀ͦ͋̅̈́̇̃͛͊̌̃͊ͬ̒̏̎͜͝͏̷̠̰̺̺̬̮̝̹͕̝̙̦͎̺͓m̴̩̺̗̱̟̲͚̱͍̗̲̘̏̽̓̔ͦ͛̏̽̐ͤ̈́͊̏̉́ͩͅḁ̢̛̪̭̱̪̹̪͔̮̗̣͉͕̟̺͒͒́̑̌̆̉͂́ͅt̶̹͓̫̗̻̯̳̠̥̖͚̰̗͍͎ͪ̈́̈͊͒̉̃ͫ͋̓ͦ̂̕͞͞͡ͅͅͅṱ̷͚͓̖͉͕̖̠͇̫̣͉͇̠̓̾͑͆̍́̓̎͟͠͞ͅͅͅë̛̛̝̬͉͉̭̪̥͖̟̲̺͙͎́̓̓̈́ͩͨ̃ͥ̀͆͒̈ͣͯ̋ͭ́͘̕͞ŗ̶̶̩̰̫̘̗̯̤̻̖͉͇̹̥͚̘̯̬͔̞ͨ͋̇ͫ̓ͤ͌͑ͩ̂̊̚͟͡ ̴̨̠͉̘̦̪͕͖͎̼͆ͫ̅ͯ͑ͩ͌̽ͮͬ̒͒̐̈͐͞n͉͇̞͈̻̠̩̦̦̿̋̽̂ͣ̑͡o̷̵̸͔͚̤͙̿̓͌͋͛ͥͣ̑ͪ͛ͬ̓ͭ̋̉̉̕ ͐̓͋ͬ͏͚̰̘͚̘̻̖̟͘͘m̸̧̹̫̲͉̟̝̗̟̞͙͔ͨ̌̈́̌ͦ͛ͤ͐͋̆͂̈́̏ͮͭ̒ả̟̣̖̰̭̘̥̌̍̽͛͆̐̍ͦ̕͡͡ť̇̽ͮͥ͑͌͗̂̅͌ͣ̽҉͢͏͏̡̰͇̰̩̪̪̝̠̞t̸̹̜̖̗͚̭̲̪͚̟͉̻̪̩͌̆ͥ̃̇̈́̾́͌̂͘͟ȅͦ͆̄̈̆̃̅ͦ̓͆̔́͂̿̍̍͠͝͏̳̦̱̰͖͜r̢̨̙͈͕͎̙͙̺̦̣̻̝̻͎̆̍͑̓̏ͨ̄͜ ̵̣̝̙̦̠͇̫̳͎̫̗͕͕̠̦̹́̌̒ͤ̄̂͌ͤ̍̃̌ͮ̋̚͜ͅn̈́ͧͣͥ̀ͫ̉̐̏̃͡͏̲̩̺͙̹̪͙̪̥͈̤̞ơ̴̡̼̮͖̺͔̬̟͖̪̣̜͚ͩ͊͗̓͒ͫͫ̀ͭ̇̇ͧͫ̂ͭ̚͝ ̧̛͔̗͔̜̒ͬ̉ͭͦ̾ͬͥ͜͡m̭̟̜̖̥̜̎͒̎ͮ͒͋͒̄̒̍ͧ̌̐̌ͥ̉̋̆͞͝a̵̧͎̪̦̹̹͊ͩ͋̑̀̄͛̈́ͯ̚̕t̷̸͎̤͎̜̱͙̱̭̬͎̠̗̹̯̤̣̮͎͍̉̊̒͌͒ͣ͌ͦ̊̈́̋͝t̛͙͙̪̦̮̬͓̼̫̦͚̟̝̼̽̀͋ͫ̅͑ͧ̅̇͒̓ͯͥͧ͆͋͗ͣ͂͢ͅę̵̨̛̣͚̲͓̰̠̬͇͂̊̇́ͬ̏r͖̣͓̦̯̻̝̺͙͉̯̼̦̙͇ͯͮ̅ͬ̚͢͝ͅ ̴̜͍̩̬̀ͨͧ͂͆̀̂ͭ̓̿͋ͥ̿͝n̢̢͕͙̩̂ͬ̈̀ͦ̂̀ͬͣ͜o̰͓̣͍̪͈̖̲̼̹̲͍̪̯̭͐͂̇̅̕͝ ̴̶̡̢͔͙̮͎͎̼̪̼̖̻̥͈̮͍̪̠͓̖͍̉̉̎ͯ̌ͪ̑ͬ̔m̶̶̬̩͚͖̭ͯ͆̒ͮͯ͜͝ͅä͖̘̪̞̤̫͕͙̤͂́͊̐͘͜͟͟ͅt̛̤̻̩̟͔͇͇̓̎̽̐ͬ̇ͣ̇́͟͞t̨͎͙̝̘͇̋͑̂͛ͫ͋̓̄ͬ̋ͨ̈́ͫ̐ͮ͟͝ę̫̘̺̤̼̘̦͉͎̟̄̇̄̈́̽̐͌͢͠͝rͥ̿̒̐͘͜҉̢̳̭̹ͅ ̷̵͎̤̰̺̙͌̇͊̄͊͒ͬ̃͂ͭ̀̚͘n̶̢̖̳̘̰͚̯̺̻̯͍̭̬͇͍̿̌̐ͩ̎̐͗͆̿ͣͮ̆̇̽͛ͪ͟ö̵̫̗̪͖̦͈̣̘̟̤̮͉̠͎͕̝́ͣ͆ͤ̂̇̇̉ͯ͊̌͛ͤ̽͒ͪͧ̕͝ ̵ͪͧ̄̉̉ͬ̽̍̈́ͫͨ̋͂̌ͯ͑̚̚҉̴͡͏̭̣͔̲̺͕̝͖̻͔̫̬m͋̐̉̓ͫ̽̎̾ͦ͆̉̍̐̆̑̄̎ͨ͝͡҉̥̭͉̙͙̗͓͔̭̩̰̭ä̷͍̣̰͙̮̟̩̺͛͂̌̒ͧ̄t̷̛̝̺͈̯̲̭͓̤̳͕͉̥̖̼̲̞̟͕͍̀͗̾̄ͪ̚͠t̸̷̢̺̥̞̰̬̽̐ͥ͊͑͊ȩ̴̭͔̭̱̟̙͔͓̬͎̱͍̪̰̬̝̞̦͆ͧͨ͌̕r̶͊̓ͩͣ̿̍͛́͂͑ͯ͛ͮ̇̌̇ͪ͏̶͓͕͇̟̹̩̤̞̫̹̹̟̯̥̙ͅ ̴̢͓̳͈͍͚̝͈̮̝͚̫͎͋̑ͩ̓͊̂͑̉̎̽̇̏̂͑̍̕͜͝ͅnͨͧ̿̄̃̃̂̒͋̃̅̓̑͆͞͏̷̨̨̦̱̮ơ̋͌̍̆̾҉͏̹̗͔͈ ̫̝̼̩͓̭̠̬ͦͩ͊͊̒͞ͅm̵̐̇̈́̅̍ͨ̍̇̒ͦ͏̨̢̳̖̙̪͚͖͇̠̗͎̩̭̟͓͖͕͇ä̢̻̥̲͖̠̝̳̥́̑̔̾ͯ͂̃ͬͧͫ̎̓͢͜t̸̛̟̞̳̹̦̪̘̹̪̞͎̖̞̠̮͚ͣ̅̿ͧ̔ͫ͜͡t̡̧̓̃̾ͦͤ͐͟͏̢͍̤͍͖͍̳̻̙͇̺̖ḙ̵̷͍͍̠̖̱͇̬̮̫́ͯ̂́͟ͅr̴̟͚̫̹͒̌͂́ͥͥͮ̋͋͆͊̚͡͞ͅͅ ̵͓̹̳̭͇̐ͮ̾̈́͂̏̂̏͒ͫ̾̂̔͝ņ̵̪̯̟̤͓̣̙͙͖̒̈̔ͧͤ̑͊͒̐̃ͩ͒̏̉o̎̐̋̇҉̷̢͍͓̬̼̩̞̠̜͔̺ ̧̭͙͓̤̫̺̮̳̯͕̇̾̇ͦ͒͆̿͊͌ͨͭͨͭ̓͠m̷̶̖̦̙͚̫̎ͧͣͣ͛ͩ͋ͦͥ̍̑͘a̒̽̃ͥ̽ͪ̽͋ͪͥͤ͞҉̦̬̘̮̣̝͍̹͙̼ṯ̴̡̳̭̟̔̊̑̾͛ͧ̃ͮ͐͊͂͟ţ̵̝̰̤̰͇̼͙̘͇̟͎̭̘͎͇̻͎̹͗ͧ̒̐̊̽͟ȇ̵̶̢͇͕̜͌̉ͯͥ͑̿͋̃ͭ͡r̵̥̝̟̱̙͔͈̦͓̺̩̓̓̆ͥ̈́ͮ͐͛͟͜ȧͧͬ̇ͯͭ͗̍̄̓̓͛̔̍͊͑ͬ͘͜͝҉̨͍̦͙̼ť̶̶̛̞̦̦̳̻͉̤̥̦̳̱̲ͥͪͭ͛̆ͯt̨̛͉̼͎̘͓͔͔͈̫͍̬̿̉̍̅̀̽ͩ́͑̾̓͡ȩ̵̩̟̯̮̫̫̳̝͂͋̀͌r̶̵̔́̒͗̅͌͋́ͨ̊ͥ͆͛̊̐̀̔ͬͫ҉̟̯̳͖̰͔̥̟ ̧̡̭̭̤̭̪̺̝̺̮̗̦̪̱̹̤̣ͦ̅ͪͦ̿̉̓̐ͫ̚͜

 

n̶̓ͤ̍̐̐ͤͨ͐͋ͤ͊̆̂̂̚͡͏͇̻̫͓̰̖̟̙̩̪̤͖̟ͅo̴̬͎̝͎̬̰̹̝̲͈͓̯͂̐ͫ̏̂ͣ͢͝ ̡͇͈̤̟͇͉̠̭͖͔̱͍̥̰̊̌̍ͭͤͦͮ̂̒̐̔̾m̷̡̝̦̺͇͚̣̓̈́́̈́͐̎ͬ͞aͬͥͤ̂̾͒ͭͥ̑ͮ͐҉͉̹͇͚̼̪̤͓̳͙͍̬̻̗ť͋̾ͪ̾͛ͭͮ̍͆̊͐ͤ̓̚̚҉̛̱͚̥̞̱̟͇̱̙͕͎͚ͅt̸̴̸͐͆͊̌̇ͭͭͮ̇̋̈͂̇̆҉͎͎͉̮̦͙̬͉̞̗̥͉̺̯͢ȩ̢̽̒̽͊ͩ̀̍̆̓ͧ̃͊ͪ̚҉̹̤̮̠̩̫̱̼̥͉̱͘r͗ͣ̂͌̐ͧ҉̸̴͔̬̞̖ ̧̧͖̬͚͔̤̠̺̦̰̱̦̼̥̝̝̘̹̜̾̅ͦ͗̄ͣ̇͂̇͜͝ͅn̸͉̫͙̰͙͚̱̱͕ͯͤ́̇̓̽ͥͮͤ̾̈̿̆̉̆ͣ̈͌̕͞o̡̧̱͚͓̯͓̱̟̟͔̝͈̺̼͚̺͎̊̃̍̄͆̓̇ͥ̏̍̎̔ͣ̄̎̇͘͟ͅ ̮͇͔̟͍̳͓͚̹͍͚̒ͮ̈̍ͥͩ͒̕ͅmͯ̔͑ͭ̈́̆҉҉̦̝͉͉̳̭͚̘̳̲̳̥͓̻͕ͅą̶̱̝̼̩ͭ̔̋ͣ̈́ͫͮ̒̊ͮ̒ͬ̚͡͠t̴̨̡̛̠̫̘̭͔͙̗͍̊͋̑͌͗͑͠ť̙͕̰̦͔̻̭͖̗̣̥̝̫̦͖̠͍̩͕͆̈́̃͋̅̌͐͑̈̒̿ͧͦͧ̕ę̟̫͚̠̱̪̌̓͑ͭ͘͞ŗ̸̛͉̘̠͇̭͚̰̤̳̙̜̫͈̉̌ͪͦ̏͋̇́̎̃̅̈̈́̔̏ͥ̅̿̚̕͟ͅ ̸̴̡̛̥̙͙̤̑͐͋̒̑̀͆̿͗̍̑̿͒̈́̐͐̈̋ͪņ̡̛̫̭͓̝̳̭̯̠̙̥͈̜͇̝̱̟͈ͭ̐͋ͧ̒̂̕͢o̴̟̻͙̺̝̙̼͈ͥ͐ͨ̍ͧ̿͆̈̋͑͑ͦ̈́ ̨̛̜̯̳̯̙̺̣̯̻̪̱͆̔̇ͥͥ̓͂̏ͥ̇̑̒͂̌͒ͧ̊̒͜͞ͅm̸̵̞̼̣̰̩͙͉̖͔̓̍͑ͬͤ́̽͋ͦ͗͐ͬ͝a̧͌ͦ̉͂̿ͣ҉̷̥̘͎͉̱̪t̢͕͚̘̻̜ͫ̆ͤ̎̆̈́̒ͬ̿͢͞͠t̡̳̜̝̱̬͉̹͚̰̣͚̯͎̰̞̟̿̒̆ͨ̀͒̽ͧ̈ͪ̈́̂͌́ͭ͋͂͘ḙ͚̗͇̰̯̮̠̜̹̬̼̭͂̌͊͌̔ͤ̑͘͟ͅr̶̨͍̤͎̩̐ͧͩ̉ͩ̒ͭͧ̍̑ͭͫ͌͋̿̐ͦ ͩ̑̉͆̔ͬ͑҉̺̫͕͔̳͉̭̱̝͕̼͔̹̗̮̥͢n̴̶̨̼̼̜̻̜̟̩̰̼̤̠͖̝̫̣͇̋ͦ͑̄͜ͅó̴̡̨̮̬̩͚͚̫͖̼̲̼̗̞̞̭͍̣͇̼̟̅ͤ̿̉ͨ̑̎ͤͮ͗ͯ̋ͯͤͦͬ̐̅͡ ̛͓̦̜͍͇̬͍̘̻͎̫̓̈́͆͂̍͑͒̋ͮ́͢͢m̶̷̶̢̨̲͍̘͈͇͂ͯ͋ͪ̒̾͌͂͋ͨ̋̋̿͌̊͂ͪ͋̂ͅâ̌͆́̔̉ͤ̽̈̉̂ͦ͏̵̰̹͕̖͓̲̰̟̳̰̱̭͈͉͕͔t̉ͦ̾͑̊ͨͯ̽̂͛̄ͫ͂҉̵̢͙͕̳̘tͣ̊̑̄̃ͤͯ̇͂̌ͭ̎̏̀̚͘҉̷̷̝̜̭̣̣̦̟̤̖̠̲̜ͅͅͅe̖̼̙͚̼̮͙̥̹͈̘̗̭̊̑̿ͭ̇͢͞ͅr͚̪̩̳͔̯̜̩̲̮̯̗̘̣̩̣̪͆ͥ̆̔͗̏̏̅̍ͤ̋͑ͪ̿͒̅͆ͯ́̕̕ ̸̼͓̱͍̣ͬ̾̿̐͐͛ͨ̎ͤ̚̚͞n̢͚̲̭̬̮̘̰̩̬̈́͗͛ͩ̆̅̾̈́̕͘ǫ̥̪̹̱̳̜͔ͭ̽ͨ͐͡͞ ̨̛̛̥͙̬͚͚̠͈͕̠͇̝̥̬̞͇̻̏ͣ́̈ͅͅm̸̨͌ͭ̇̆̒ͬͭ̓ͭ̋ͫͪ̾͟͏̢͇̬̖̪̦̺̜ͅā̷̵̛̛̗̹̠̣͚̗̞̳͕̠̰̝̦͖͈̹̆͌ͫ̽̊̃t̛̳̻̲̝̂ͨͪ̆̈́ͥͪ͜t̡̢͚͍͙̗̗̩͙͙̪͉̽̂̓ͪ͐̈́͒͘͝eͬͫ̂ͯ͆ͩ̾̅̑̈̓̽͒̈ͯ͞͠͏̦̟̫͙̬͓̯̜̯̤͖̻̯̘̭͖͍̭͘r̡͉̠̞͇̲͚̗̰̫̦̂͊̓ͩ͘͝ ͧ̓ͧͧ͏҉̺̙̞̟͔̠͇̖̻n̢̢̯͎̯͚̜̖͚̗͙̓ͩͬͯ̅̃̾ͬͯ̎̍ͩ̆͘ȯ̵̗͇̩̼̻͎̱̹͂́ ̸̧̛̤̰̤̲̙ͩ̄ͧͫ̒͐̋͆̏ͯ͆̂ͦ͑̄̚m̶͔̭̠͎̖͙͎͓̣̗̐̽̊̿͟͟aͦ͂ͮͥ̂̒̒̆ͫ̓̓̿ͮ͋҉̭͓̥̟̭̯̖͉̭͚̤̱̮t̷̳̮̙̫͎͙͉͗̉̂̄̀͋̆ͤͯ͐ͪ͝t̸̥̱̹̬͍͎͆̇ͦ̈͌̅̒͝e̢̩̣̙͇͈̣͕̱̣̞̟̳͙̫̲͖͚͚̐̍͒͐̈ͣ͑̀͐͋̂ͧ̃̾̿̾͗̃̕͘͢ͅr̤͎̖͍̳̠̝̘̮̬̬ͥͧ̿̋̚̚͠ ̶̢͎͎̱͍͕̙̮͙̳̠̠̟̲͙͉̪͕̱̾͛̀ͭ̑ͧͦ̚͝ͅņ̷̱͕͈̞̎̑̐̓̃ͦ̆̆ͤ̎̆̒ͥ͐̿̌͂ͧo̡̹͙̪̖̝̙͖̩̦ͮͫͩͬ̂͑̾ͮ̏ͭͣ̃̄̚͜ͅ ͯ̓̃̎̓͂̔͒ͯ̎̈ͨ̈́͏̵͇̳̻̼̖̭̖̤̮̼m͈̺̫̤̱̣͉͚̽̍ͣ͆ͮͦ̑̾͗͗͠ȁ̿̓̎̿ͭ͠҉͏̗̟̞̤͜t̶͕̦͕̬̟̦͓̹̻̹̗́̾̽ͦ̆ͫ̌ͥͮ̑ͅt͒ͣ͌̉̀̋͗ͧ̽ͩ̌͋ͧ̚͢͞҉̧͈̮̼̗̭̰͢e̶̡̻̦͔͕͍̪̩̳̰̦̠͖̺̳̼̼̊͆ͬ͌ͨ͌̾̆ͪ̏͆̐̚͟͠ŗ̎͂͒̇͛ͧ͋̃͑ͤ͒ͣ̍̚͏̸̛̠̳̲̠͚͚̥͈ ̴̸͖̦͖͈̞̘̫͓͓̩̱͔̪̮̫ͫ̅̑̒ͬ̈́̓̃͌͒͢ṅ͒ͨͮͤͯ̑͊҉͔̜͖̟̹͘o̸̢͕͚̥̬͖̱̤̞͕̭̹̦̖̤̠͇͆̎͗ͬͭͥͯ͆̊̈́̈́̿ͯ̇͗̔͒ͮ ̡̛̛̲̞͈͕͌̐͐ͫ̇͟͡m̨̙̜̠̹̯͖̩̯͓̠͙̖͗ͩ̎̓̾ͯ̒̈ͥ̌̑͒͛ͯͦͮ̄͟ͅḁ̷̛̠̗̹͎̙͎̟͓̩̭͔̙͈̈́̆̽̈́̓̐͂̇̔̒ͣ̓ͮt̑̉̈́ͦ͒̄̍ͮͯͩ̌͛̕͢͝҉̵͖͙̟̳͔͚̤̠̤̥̥̘̥ͅṫ̷̨̡̺͕͕͔̲͚͓͈̳̘̬͙̖̖̘̑̾͑ͮ̒̏̃̈͌̈́̇̈́̅̂ͣ̾͟ę̴͎̱͙̻̫̜̪̟̞̠͓͉̬͑͒̿͑̏͑̎̌̑̈ͣͭͤ̏͢r̷̰͖̱͎̮͚̣̙̲̰̲̳̦̖͎͂̃̋̀ͭ͑͗̌ͥ͝ͅͅ ̵̩̳̯̲̣̟͓̯̳͖̜͇̠̫͎͛̂͐͒̄̒̄̿̀̋̌̌ͧͤ̔̍̚͝nͣ̃ͣ̉͒́̋̐̄ͪͮ̃͐̋̈́͑͞҉̹̱̥̻̙̮̲͕͙̬͓̦̤͚̩̞o͂ͨ́̊̿ͨ̈́ͥ̂ͥ҉͓̫̯͞ ́̇̀͋ͮ̉ͪ͗̅̎ͯ̈́͒̈́̐͛̍͒͏̨̢̮̻̳̟̙͍̤m̸̵̺̖͈͉̳̍͌͂͢ȃ̶̢̨̖͕̦̝̞͈͎̱̏̒̾͑ͩ̏́̒̀ͥͮt̤̗̳̭̠̻͇̼̞̤̱͓̥̖̗̻̯̘ͥ̽̐̆̂̐̽̓ͭ͛̅ͧ͒͗͂ͦ͐͠͞ͅț̛͖̠̯̝͔̜̮͚̰̭ͥ̍ͦ͒͛͋̃ͦ͘e̒̀̄̀̓ͭͩͩ̏̃̍̑̍ͮ̐̂͏̴͟͜͏͕̳̞̲͖͉̯̻̹̲̠̠̞͔̩͈̩͖r͋ͧ̑̀ͨ̇҉̛̗͎̯̰͓͇̠̮̝̯̼͚̫̯̟̼͜ ̻̜̻̫̬̱̜̥̝͙̣̖̞̭̬̺̠̪̘ͭ̅ͮͬ̚̕͠n̛͕̘̞̘̝̤͍͓̻̫̝̲̺̟̳̣ͨͪ̿͛͡͝ͅò͈̠̠͍̟͎̹͍̖͕͖͎̔ͮͤ͐̓̾͂̊̋ͣ͂̃̑̅ͭ͂̌̕͜ ̅͗͛̉̀̃ͬ̏̒̓͢҉̹͎͉̰̘̼̠͖͕͎

 

m̶̺̣̮͈̯̫̫͇̰̪̈́̒̐͂̄́ͪͥͭ̑̔͂ͅa̷̺̮̘̠̟̼̘̦̐̑͋ͥ̈̔̐ͤͯ̋̓̌̆͒̌ͬ̓͘͘͢t̶̷̩͕͓̖̘͖̰ͭͫͭ̾͗̉ͫ͋̇ͣ͛́̋͛ͅt̡̛̻̮͉̯̪͖͐̂ͥ̋ͪ͗͟e̴͈̦͎̜͎̹͓̠̼̰͖ͩͭ̎ͭ͋̕͟ͅr̛̗͚̫̙̟̞̱̲̰̰ͩ̎͐͋̏̄̍ͮ͂̿̏ͥͮͯ̍͋̍ͩ͆̕ͅͅ ̸̯͎͔̱̦͖̗̮͉͚̼̼͌̉́̒ͭ͘ͅn̈͋̿͒͛ͥ̌͒̎̾ͭͮͪ̈́̂̈́͆҉̦̞͙̟̗̘̳̗̜̪͎͇̹̜̜̝͉̜ô̧̢̬͎̗̟͓̙̤͈̟͈̱͍͍̹͛ͪ̐͂̒͌͐͌́̇ͣ̇̍̒ ̧̡̖̟̺͍̱̠̬͕̜̲̖̹̪͊ͦ́̿̐̿̇ͫ̎ͭͤͧͦ͛ͩͬͬ̾ͦ͘m̷̡͇͚͎̠̻̠͓̰̗͉͔͆̀̎͘a͌͒͌ͥ҉͓̝̼͇̦̲̲͈̙̺̹͕̦̳̦ͅẗ́͋͌ͬͦͧ͐ͪͤ̒̄ͪͨ͋̆̐̔҉̢̣̱͔͔͔t̷̷̠̰͉̻͉͈̼͖̺͓͍̖̰̠̃̒ͥ͊̃͗̔̌͐̔͗͛̒̈́̐ͩ̀̚͠e͋ͣ̄ͣ̐́͗̍̈́͒͢͠͏҉̢̦̦͚̺̠̭̰̺ȓ̷̳̯͇̝̤̳̉ͪͮ́̊̌͂͋̀̌ͯ͌͗̊̓̄̃͒ ̴̸̬̣̻̯̺͔̭͇̖̘̭̪͚͕͖̞̗̅̃̂ͥͨ̌͋͛̿̚n̡͍͓̼̺̹͎̗̣̖̱͕̖͓͖̟̗͐̈́̓̓͗̌͆̿̒̈ͦ̔̍̌̚͡o͆͂̽͌ͣ̍̽͐͏̸͢҉͕͍̠̱̲̟̠̮̞͎̹̙ͅ ̳̪̤̬̻̲͎̤͍̭͉͓͈̯̻̺̩̘̣͐̿͒̂ͭ̔̿̃͛̇̈͢͠m̵̯̞͙͖̞̦͙̫͚̜̬̥̗̗̜̫͈̄ͮ͛̔ͫ̀ͩͧ̇ͬ͑ͨ̉̓͆̇̅͘͝͞a̵̢͙͕̪͖͓̺̻̭̻͎̬̮̜̩̼̱̐̍̿̋ţ̷̨͎̥͕̥̓̔̓̑̾t̶̶̲̣͕̱̭̱̘̠͇͎́ͫͭͪ̈̔͛̉̑͠e̅ͦ͋ͣ҉̵̫͖̖̠͚͖̹̭̞̯̲̮̹ͅȑ̨̦̩̟̳̙̮͎̯̮̍ͪ̓͐ ̛̫̯̳̙̬̳̍̈́ͩ͑̓̄̓͘͟n̛̠̣̟͓̦̦̞͙͔͚̬̭̬͉̗̗͇̥̲͒̃͐̐ͪ͑͐͋̈́̈ͫͩ͊͜ơ̞̱̲̱̟̥̰̼̞͙͈͈̊ͪͤͣ̈́͑͗̿ͨ̕͡ ̴̢̧̟̝͉̲̠̠ͭ̄͆ͫ͞m̡̘̪̜̦͚̳̝͍̮̦̬̊̏͑̇̈̓̅̀ͥả̳̻͙̠̜̟̜͚̼̹̗͒̈́͐ͤ́͐͌̇ͭ͜t̷̙̣͕̘͉̲̝̳̰ͨ͐̅͑̔̑̋͐͌͑̈́̏ͮ̎͐͘ͅt̂ͮ͗ͤ͐̔̇͆͊҉̡͙̻̝̲̖̬͟ẻ͖̱͇̜̖ͬͥͤͯ͐͋͐ͮͧ͌̊ͦ̏͆ͧ͆͜͞r̠̣̣̺͔͈͓̩̙̤̈͒͂͋͆ͯ̔͊ͯ̀ͦͤ͆ͬͬ̀͘͘ͅ ̶̣͓̼̠̫͉̟̱̜̏̄͋ͤ̆͂ͣ̇̾ͬ͒̔͜n̛̍ͮͮ̉̾ͩ̌ͥ̉҉̡̡̪͕͙̪͍͍͕̫ͅoͪ̇̎͐ͩ͗̂̽ͯ͜҉̧̛͕͍̜͉̪̣̹̬̰͓ͅ ̶̢̢̦̤̞̥̞̳̳̲̭̅ͨ͗̐̑ͨ̐̌̅̚m̸̨͕̭̺̗̳͔̘͇͈̖̮̊ͥ̎̈ͯ̓̿͐̊̀̒̈ͬ͗̔͝ä̢̛̫̺̙̦͉̜͙̟̖́ͩ̆̽̒̉͘t̪̦̲̠͗͐̂̇ͯ̈́̾̈́ͥ͋̄̾́̈̈́͢͡t̴̡̛̙̖͉̫̳̮̖̲̹͇̻̬̘̍̍́̄́ͦ̇̌̔͐̌̐̔ͯͤ͋̚̕ͅȇ͆́͋ͭ͐́ͪ͂̈́̔ͥ̀ͩ́͛͊̿̕҉̷̩͓̰͉̲̭͔̥̥̖̲̻͎͠r̸͕̖͖̫̲̲̫̻̮̦̙̼̹͆̂͒̽ͭ͊ͤͬ̈́̂̃ͫ̂͒̎̈̌̚͠ ̸̧͔͖͎̦́ͦͩ̌̐̔̄́ͤn̴͎̭̤̲̜̘̠̹̬̺ͬͦ̏̐̐̆ͭ̋̚͘͠o̢͔̰͎͔̤̺͍̗͙͚̱̺̹͇͚͕̣̯̹ͩ͊̂͆͢ ̢̯̰̣͎͎̥̦͚̞͉̻̖̣̟̟̱̞̱ͬ͗̇̎̈ͨ͛̏͟ͅm̒̉ͬ̀̇̅̏̓ͫͦ̐ͪ͘҉̠̝͎͔̙̹̱̮̣ã̩̲̪̰̝̺͎̮͓͓͚̹̜̥͍̟̙̓̿̽ͨ̈́ͣͤ̍̈ͬ̈̅̆̿ͩ̕͘͡ͅt̢̪̖̙̖̖̦̩̭̝̲̙̣͇̖̩͕̦͗̌̇ͫ̊̇̏t̶̸̨̥̝̞͔̫̥̗̠̠͔̳͇̰̳̪̟̬̐̇ͯ͗ͫ̅́͌̽̎͒̒͐͟͠ͅe̶̢̼̱̣̮̖͈̮̲̩͕̟̳̠ͪ̏̎̅ͪ͟͡r̆ͨͧ͛͛̉ͧ͗͛̍͒̚͏̛̥̺̪͕͓̺̳̻̕͡ ̷̧͌̇ͥ̉ͧͭͫͥͪ҉͈̥̼̰̗̮̞͙̯͉̟͉̪͔̤̬͟ņ̛͚͙̖͉̬̰͉̬͚͓̥̅ͭ̊ͩ́͛ͭ̔̾o̙̺̜ͣͥ̒͋̔̋́̌̈́̿̍̚̕ͅ ̛͍̝̦͖͕̗̠̬̞̳̲̞̰͚̣̮̩̣̹̈̽̃̈̅̌͗͗̽͆̋ͣͭ̌̈ͩ͘͜͞͞m̸̡̼̣̺̗̑̄̾̃͛̇̿ͥ̋̌̏ͧ̄̋̃̓͂ͯ̕͜ą̵̷̷̱͚͎̝͒̋̄͂͌ͯ̀ͮ̋̇͂͟ţ̭̠͔̞̾̉ͭ̏̽ͫ̃̋̉̊̆͒̏͒̔́ͧ̉͜͢͜t̢̨͇̘̖͕̣̟̗̩͇̭̠̼͛ͫ͂ͩ́͘͠ͅͅě̯͎͈͕̫ͬ̅̄̈́͘͞ŗ̶̙̻̝̹̝̹̱̋ͤͦ̒̃͋̓ͯͭ͊̏ͤͅ ̛ͧ̄ͦ̅͊̿ͩ̾̀̚͏̡̙̮̜̖̭͖̞͔͓̰͜n̴̨̘͉̰̳̤͙͍̥̺̟̉̀ͨͦͥ̈͑̈́͂ͧ͗ͪ̽͋ͩͭ̕͟o̵̴̴̵͖̟͇̐͗͊͊̓ͯͪ̍͌̅̿̓̎̚͟ ̡ͥ̆ͤ͌̏̅҉̮̟͙̠͔͎̗̹͢m̸̘̲̤̯̪͍̮̲̝̰͍̊͌́̋̔̊͊ͬ̊ͪͭ͑̂ͫͬ͋͒̑͞ą̷ͭ̓̿̐ͣͪ͋̂̊̔̌̄͋̚̚̚͘҉̡̘̤̬͙͍ť̤̪͍̘͇͙̮͔̭͓̳̝̙̪͂͗͛ͧͩ̾͢͡͝t̒͊͌̉̊̔̏͋̊͛̾̉҉҉͟͏̶̦̯̻͍̱̝̙̩̳͉͍̜͚͖e̛̝̩̲̠̞̻̍̊ͫͤͣ͂͌̓̐͢r̴̺͇̻̬̟̯͖̳̪̘̞̪̞̠̭̤̫͂͛̐ͯ̄̈͐̇͠ͅ ̷̢̨̬̫͓ͪ̄͌ͬ͑̅ͤͪ̆͆̑ͪ̔͆ͯ͌̉ͬ͡ͅn̶̢̘̫̝̹̭̥̦̩͙̖͍͎̳̟͍͕ͭ͛̃ͫô̂͆̿͗͆ͦ҉̶̶̫͓̖̠̥̕ ͤ̏͌̌ͣͮ͒ͧ̐̐̽̓ͤ̀̔̈̓͏̡̥̙͚m̓͒̐̀̃ͥ̀̔̎ͬ̄ͧ̿̂ͭͥ̚͘͟͏̹̜̩̘͙̻̟̳ͅa̭̬̬̮̻͓̳̦̙̳͛̔̈̓͜͞ͅt̢̗̤̖͇̳̟̲̝̋͛͒͂ͯ̓ͦͦ͢t̶̸̮͕̱̘͇̘̯̠̜͙͚͍͚̤̳̋̔ͨ̏͐̔ͩ̏͒̃͋͌ͤͤ̽͒̓ͅeͣ͑ͩ͂̍ͭ̎̾҉̶̣̗̮̰̫̕r̗̗̲̣͆ͥͩͭ̎̑͛ͬ̍̅̄̈́ͮ̆͆͢͞a̴͕̙̺̙̮̎͊͂̒̋͘͢͜tͤͯͮͦ̂ͭ͊͏̡̟̥̳̫͇̤̬̺̤̯̮͙̘̗͓̯͠ͅͅt̴̶̢͆͛͊ͬͮͮ͛̆̀ͥͨ̾͟҉̘̯̙̥̪e̛͇͖̬̪̼͙ͯ͗̃̂ͮ̾̎ͪ̓̑͊͐ͫͩͤͥ͗͌̚r̵̩̲̦̫͚̹̟ͮ͌ͨ̀ͯ͂ͣͨ͛ͥ̅ ̧̰̞̪̜̲͉̱̪̏ͪͯ͋͗ͥͥ͒̈͛̈́̆ͥ͢ṅ̴̨̞̣͕̩̖̥͉̮̝̯̞̖͓͇̲͉̣̯̪͛͛ͤͦ̓̋ͨ̆̓ͫͮợ̶̢̺̹̫̹͖̩̞͍͖̬͖̬̜̮̗͊͑̂͂̉̎̒ͮ͋͒̌̾̀̎ ̙̯͕ͦ̂ͧ̈́̕͢͡͞ͅ

 

m̐ͦ̐ͧ̓̄͋ͬͤ͋͛͊̊̋͂͗͛ͬ̚҉͏̛͕̭͔̲̖͖͚̯̯̭͍̯̟̥̣ͅͅâ̷̟̩̠͕͍̹͕̠̣̬̞͙̭̰̬̱̰͂͂̓̿ͪͦͬ͊ͣ͟ț̭̺̫̖̪̙̄͒ͤ͆̑ͯ̎̓̃ͯ̉ͪ͋̕͜͟͡ṱ̗͎̣̫͖͎̪̲̪̺͉͓̤͉̤ͣ̽ͨͩ͒̓̔̃̓ͨͣ̌ͤ̑̽͝ë̵̡̛̙̦̩̥̱̗̯̱̫̖̭̣̬͈̠̫̦́̄͐́̐̆ͫ͒ͤ̎̆͌̽ͅrͪ̓̍ͭͥ̏ͭ̏ͣ̾́̿̌ͯ̓ͣ̀̄҉̖̪̻̝͈̣̼̟͎̞̜̫̝̟̘̠̝͠ ͤ̓͌ͩ̃͏̣̝̹̩͈̠̫͔̻̜͈̩̞̦͉̟̮̖̝͘n̴̨̡̥̪̳̤̬̱̩̮̥̬̹͒̃̾ͧͥ͘͡ͅo̝̤̦̝͇̬̞̣̐ͦͤ̆̏ͦͬ͂̈́͛ͩ͊̈́̂͑́ ̷͑̎̒ͪ̿̆́͊ͫ͗̆́̐̽ͯͮ̓͊ͣ͏̴̮͚̙͕̤͚̹͔͖̻̫̜͞m͗̂̊̔̓ͮ͋́̑ͣͬ̑ͦ҉̧̨̫̻̟̤ḁ̸̧̮͈͈̬̳̤̣̜͕ͬ̃̽̂ͤ̈́̿͠t̵̸̡̨̩̖̥̻̠̤̭̤͍̣̫̣͍̰̜͍͙̮̊ͥ́̊ͦ͌̃̅̇̀͐̎̍̍̾̀ͩ̚͡ţ̄ͨ́ͥ͞͠͏͔̮͎̟̣̲͔ę̷̛ͪ̈́ͣͯ́͘҉̲̫̗̰̯ͅrͮͨ̓̀̊ͨͮ̋͐́̆̔҉̶̦̬͇̳̘̠̫͚̥͝͡ͅ ̴̛̦̪̖͉͎͈̣͓̞̜͔̲͙̤͇̻̻͑̆̌ͩņ̡̬̲͍̤̼̜̪̠͎͉̠̦͓̼ͬ͑̈͑͗ͯ̊͊͠͞ơ͈̥̬̞̦͖̖͚̫̹̫̱͙͈ͭ̇̒͋́͆ ̬̘̯͚̭͙̉͋̂̋̒͂͆͆̾̎̒͆ͯ̾̚̚͟m̴̤͕̼͕̳̯̼̹ͧͮ̊͌͌͂͑ͥ̎̊ͣͬ̊̇͑ͨ͛͘͢͞ą͈͔̪̥̳͙͚͍͖͔̠͚̰̪̣͔̺̣̄̍̓̇̀̓́̂̊̿ͦ̔̏ͪ̿̇ͥ́͠͝͠ͅt̛̰̜̠̜̯̟̠̥̙͚̘̼̉ͩͮ͊ͬ͆̾̆ͨ͋͛ͤ̏̔t̛̻̺̦̮̊ͣ͗ͯ͌ͨ́͋̑̚̚͜eͬ̂ͮ͌ͬ̅͂ͭ̆ͪ͆̌̔͜͏̴͉̦͎̤̠r̡͈͍̤̱ͫͬ̅ͯͭ͛ͬͬ͟͞ ̶̨͙͓̜̘̻̘̣͍̜̳͙͕͉͔̥̺̪̎̀͌͂̈͐̚͘nͤ͊ͣ̌͂ͦ͡҉͉͇̮͚̥̪̟̖o̴̶̤̲̮̭̯̣̥̩̗̣̥̙̿̎̋ͭ̄̚̕͟ ̢̘͙̹͇̭͎͎͕̦̩̳͉̰̲͚͋̉́̌ͮͤͫ̓̓͊̎̀͗ͭ̚̕m̷̘͕̪͔̥̖̼̳̞͉̰̥̝̝̂͆̍ͧͦ̔́̇̒ͣ́͠͝a̶̓̂̌̓͆̍͗̇̾ͬ̏͢҉̨̥͕̖̱̫̘̤̼̰̘͔͎̳̮͠t̥͕͚̗͍̬͕͍̳̋́ͮ̈́̾ͯ̑͜͟͠ͅͅț̨̹͖̠͙͎̙̹̻̥̻̂͂̀́̕e̴̦̹̫̺͍̠͇̯̱̝̎͑̅ͣ͒͊ͬͮ͌̅̅ͯ͗̈ͪ̅̚͡r̷̸̨̗͖̯͈̯̫͚̼̲̃̇̓̃ͤͭͣͦ͆̊̿ͪ͑ͪ͌ ̶͍͎̪͍̞̺̗͉̙̯̻̼̻͚̖̞̇ͫͤ̅͒̃ͦͤ̇̑̎ͧ̄̑͢͠n͐ͣ͆̍ͤ̔̆ͥ̓ͩ̇͂͏̨̢͏̲̲̠̣̹̳̤̼͚̪̮̲̭͖ͅo̶̖̬̮̳͓̬͍̦̙͚̯̻̫͆̍̈̉̃̇͂̌̓̉̆͝ ̵̷̶͓͚̜̯̝͉̖̟̯͇͔̼̃̈́͛ͪͭ̄ͬ͆̏͆̕͢ͅm̶̧̙̮̣̼̊̑ͬ̍̉̇̊̈́͒͜a̶͚̼̥̰͎͕̦͕̞̞̣̩̳̪͕͓̋ͪͪ͊ͩ̄̅̔̽̋͡t̘͈̥̥̺̞̙̺͍̲̯̟̖̪͗ͬͭ͆͊ͣͭͯ͊̓̍ͪͧ͜t̸̲̜̹͙̰̙͎̩̹̰̥͐͒̔ͭ̀̓̔ͯ̾ͫͣ̄̋͘͞e͙͎̬̘̝̤̥̼̘̠͔̦͚̞͕̮͎͎̹͛̆ͤ̋͋̽̋ͩ̀͒́̈ͣ̚̚͜r̵̛̮̩̦̯̳̦̹̗͖̤͚͎͓͍̝̍̐ͭ̇͂̑ͣ͌̌́̂͗̋̏ ͉̯͎̬̞̠̻̫̩̄ͨ̿͛̓̔̋͗̋ͦ͘͠n̷̸̢̛͚̯̰̼̜͈̳̼̠̳͖̳̖̖̤̗̖̬̻̆̈̈́ͩ̿̄͛̉͐o̶̟̗̖͎̬̫ͥ̊̌ͪ̌ͦ̐͊̈́ͫ͟͠ ̣̱͚͕̣̳̙̩͔͖̗̜̦̍͋̑ͨ͗̈́̏̉̈́ͧ̐̍̃̈ͦͣ́͐̇̕͘ͅmͨ͗ͫ̃̾͗ͫ̂̽͒̏҉͚̲̠̗̘͉̺͉̙̖̬͝a̡͙̬͇̠̠̦̗͓̻̼̳͍̝͊̈́͊ͣ̋̅̇ͮ̽͌̊̿͊͘͜͞ͅt̶̤̖̯̣̖͎̘͙̼͔̫͙̀͑ͭ̄ͧ̒͑ͩ̈́͛͐͛̉̓̚̕͘̕t̷̵̨͔͍̻̦̽ͭͪ̆̾̋ͦͪ͢͝ͅͅe̶̤̗̼̥̳̗̟̟̮̗̱̱̫̙͖̩͋ͥ̌́͒͘͝͠r̸̶̨̛̤̼͈̟͔̳̣̫̪͖̟̳̯͔̩͉̲̙̊ͩ̋̑ͬ́͋̍̋̓ͨ̈́͐͠ͅ ̋́ͪ̓̋ͫ̔͏̧͎͇͔̪͕͈̗͔̫̦͙͖̖͘͠n̵̲̠̯͕̞͓͎͓̖ͯ̏̍̄̀́ͤ͋ͣ̉ͩ͠o̧̤̣̖̜̳̣̙̱̽̓ͯ̃ͮ̄ͥ̂ͤͤ̊́̃ ̔̐́͐̌͛͋̊ͬ̒͋͑́̑̉͗̀̄͏̡̜̤̙̩̙̜̫̺̟̭͇͓̼͉m̷̡̢̼̜̹̩̹͈͔̻̘ͭͭͣ̈́͊a̸̛̘̠̮͕ͤ̔̆̔̋ͭ̓͘͠ţ̡͓͓̹̟͙̭ͥ̒̌ͤͯ̉́ͨ̄ͤ̆̓͊͆̉̃͐ţ̶̸͇̦̻̣̖̼̥̱͉̣͉͍̭̽̈̎̀̑͗ͪ́͝ͅe̷̡͇̟͔̱͕̜̹̳͙͇͖̤̬̼͚ͦ̄ͧ̈́̾̌̑ͦ̂̐ͦ̚͢r̷̢̖̤͈͖̩͚̟̩͍̮̺̦͔͌ͧͥ̽͟ ̧̠̼̫͕̣̹ͣ͌͑̄̈́ͥͣ̋̄̏͂̃ͫ̓̓ͨ̒̈́ṅ̼̪͕̞͇̗̙̟̝͖̒̾́̈́ͩ͢͞ͅo̵̶̡̠̰͇̙̗̩̲̣̫̖̙͙͓̼̱̘ͥ̂̾̇͛ͬ͜ ̒ͯ͑̂ͮͨ̊̃͒ͩ҉̰̳̗͞ͅḿ̵̶̴̲̣̻̻̣̙̰̦͇̽ͫ̊ͥ̓̂̌ͪ͌̚͞a̱̻̱̯͊ͫ͌̓̔̚͝͞ͅţ̬̫̠͖̇̽͋ͯ̆͘t̸͙͖̫̳̤͔͚̑ͣͭ̔͑ͦ̇̄̒ͯ̈́͆͒̕e̸̹̺̹̼̲̥͇̙̣͉̘̠͓̐ͤ̋́̓ͫ̏̑̔͒ͭ͢͢ŕ͇͍͕͙̮̭̝̥͉͓̮̬̜̭̝̩ͥ̌̓̂̔͑͐̊̏͝ͅ ̐̐̀ͩ̐̎͂̓͐͂̏̾̉̿͑̐̓҉̵͏̳̰̹̙̼̼͇̳̭̖̫ṋ̭̳̹̪̠͍̹̣̣̟̔͛̾̊̍̉̆̆̋͆̇̑̉͋̈́͘͞oͣ̄̎̊̽҉̴̶̸͈̖̙̱͍̘̪ ̡̠̺̬̞̤͉̦͙͓̺̪̣͎ͬ̂ͧ͐̇̉͑̐̾͑̄ͨͣ̈́ͮͪͥͪ̚͝m̸̷̹̠̲͖͓̞̙͙̩̓̈̂ͨ̔ͭ̕͞ͅa̡̲͓̘̞̗͚̻̘̜̩̬͓̪ͯ͛͊ͬ͌ͧ͌͛ͨ̽̾̐̌̄ͪͦͬ͠t̶̶̫͈̲̟̯̥͓̥̼̰͚ͬ̃̏̓͂́̉͗ͣ̽̈ͥ̅ͣ̈͋ͦ̒ͅͅt̶̗̟͖̭͓͔̖̣̜̥̩̎͗̊ͮ̒̌̓̋̏ͦ̈́͠͞ͅe̶ͤ̈́̋̾͞͏̬̩̞̟̖̦̭͇͍̦͢r̪͍̱̹̜̹͔͚̖̣̜͔͚̼̗̘̂̄ͤͦ̌ͤ̑̋ͪ͋͂̎́ͥͯ̀̎͋͜ ̷̥̳͍͙̞͎̲̜̜ͨͯ̔̓͢ṅ̵̵̨̜͎̬̩̳̝̼̪͎̮͓̣̘̝̙ͯ͂͊̐ͤ̃̇̉ͥ͟ͅọ̢͇̲̰͓̱̦̳̩ͦͪ̑ͧ͌̕ͅ ̢̹̖͈̭̫̳̮͈̭̭̞̩̹̟̪͋ͩͭ͋ͫ͒̾͂͟ͅm̸͔̥͕̫̺̹̔̑̿̌ͪ͑̾͟ă̴͓̳̯̣̙͚̝̦̯̼̹͈̺̋ͣ̋ͦͪ̓ͥͪ̓̍̆̉ͬ͆͌͠͡ͅtͩ̀͒ͯͫͧͦ̏͗ͥ̄̇̏ͫͪ͟͏̫̣͉͉͕̗͖̱͓̳͍̲̞̭͈ṱ̵͇͎͖̘̮̬̯̗̯̮͚͉͐́ͪ̏͜͝e̸͓̘̼̩͇̝͖͉̳̘̺̖̥̤̟̯ͧͤͥ̊͂̈ͮ͘͜ṟ̷̢̧̖͈͓̤̺̰͚͖̮̦͇̬͚ͫ̆͌͂ͯ̒̄̄̍̓ͬ̃̔͘ ̶̴̽͌ͮͫ̽͐̀̈ͤ̾̓ͮ̈́͝҉̹̣̹̝̰̹ͅn̷̫̖̰̳̥̭̠̫̳̲̞ͦ͌ͣ͡o̜͇̰̙͓͚̦̭̗͌ͦ͌̋̐̊̃͑̃̚͘͜ ̸̢̲̙̗͚̬̮̤͚̙͕̿͐͂͆͆̏̒͌͠͡ͅm̷̵̵͙̙̯͕ͧͭ͆ͫͤ̒ͪͮͦͯͪͭ̃͢͝ͅâ̘̘̘̣̰͔̟̗̮̼̠̤͛ͦ̔̀̎ͨ̓̂͆̎ͬͪͯ̈̂ţ̸̛̛̗̻͍̭̞͖̦̘̼̫̣̠̻̝͋͊ͯ̐͋͋̉̿͂̑͂

t̨̪̗̩͇̺̜̩͙͔̰̳͚̋̇͂̈̾͆ͩ̽̐̇ͨ͗͋̂́̈́̚͠e̷̅͑͒͂̿̋̈́͛̋̉ͭ͐͗҉̷̯̱̮̜͈̜̻̥̘̠̙̲̮̥̞͜r̈́͂̔̽̆̋ͨͤ̾ͧ̓̍͊̈́͌ͩ̔̚͞҉͏͈̝̳̗̺̹̭͘͢ ̲̮̖̣͕̖̟̒̿͒́̂̂͗ͩ̾̽̀̒ͩ̃̑ͣͭ͜͜n̰̱̘̖̥̥͔̤̫̙̫͊̆̒̌̚͘͢o̷̧͔͉̙̦̘͙̥̘̯̣̲̹̜̭̮̔̔̑̊̈͒͑͒͝ͅ ̙̞͙̦̺͔̦̙͂̂̿̈ͦͨͦ̂̕͞m̷̡̨̗̖̠̞̺͂̇ͩ͒͑̋͒͛͑ͅå̴̲̩̣͚̜͇͉̥̟͕͈͈͚̳̝̜͓̹̉ͧͦ̇̑͋̉̓͆͛̈͒͆̍ͥ͑̈̚͡t̨̢̠͕̺͖͙͈̦͙̻̮̹̫͍̫͇͎͌ͨͫ̋ͦͤ̕̕͟t̷̴̡͓̦͕͇̫̘̻̭͖̞͍̘ͫ̆͆̽̋̑̑̽ͬ̿ͮ͌ͯ̄e̛̛͉̮͉̖̬̤̣̗̬̼͚͔̩̦̹͚̓̂͒̀̒̈ͫͧ̅͟͠r̥͈̖̝̩͍̲̠̞̮̩̘̦̮͕̄́ͣ͟͜ͅ ̢͛̎̿ͦͦ̍ͨ̃̎͂ͭ̚̚̚̕͏̢̲̗̗̻͍͈͇̬͈͍͉ͅň̒ͧ͑ͤ̌̆҉̡̲͙̺̦͙̙̤̙͓͖̻̦̼̯̩͈̣͎͜͜͡o̒̾̍ͣ̽͆͊̉̈ͮ́̿̐̒͗͑͗̚҉̨̗͕̩͙͍̯͙̻͘͜ ̢̺̼̻̭̥͎͚̻̬͓̰̣̠͓͑̏ͥ̏̔̈̍̆ͤͅm̾̎̓͌̔͌̋̿̈̍̒̈́͐̿̊͂͗̄͜͡͏̼̰̩̜̼̖̥̠ạ̲͖̲͚̩̠ͭ̑̿͛̐͗͌̆ͧ͘ͅt̵̤͖̳̞̣̫̜͖̣͕̆͌̐̽̈́̂͢t̴̤̗͎̪ͣ̆ͮͪ̍͗ͮȩ̛̰̭̩͖̠̺̟͍͇̭̲̱̭̎͗̐̍̎̓̈́ͦ̈ͥ͢r̴̸̡̢͖̘͔̻̮ͭ͗̎͒͐ͭ̎̇ ̛̻̻̟̹̥̩͚̤͎̹͕̤͚͚̙̜̘̭̦̑ͫ̄̈̽ͬ͛̍̉͂ͪ͊̍ņ̷̼͔̘̞̮̠̬͇͖̘̋̀̇ͣ͘͟͡ö̢̲͙̺̗̼͔̙͍͎̻̥͇̜͎͈̙̯͎͆̈́͋̋̔͛ͮ̋ͪͤ̆ͭ̒ͩ̕ ̷̛̙͚̼͉̐̈̓͊͐͂̇̃̇͂̓̅͌̓͒̚̚͞͝m̡̩̭̫͙̦̼̭͚̻̤̪͚͓͍̮͈͐̋͌́̆ͥͭͣ́ͮ̋̅͘͞͞a̧͍̼͉̬̰̪̥ͪͤ͆͑̀̌͐͛ͮ͆̑̈ͫt̸̵̵͍̠̱̺̲̰͎̦̪͔̪̭̱͈̰̜͊̏ͯ̍ͮ̎̐ͥͧ̓̀͝t̵̷̮̻̘̫͉̟͓̂̈́̀ͩ̐ͮͪͤ̿̊̀ͬͭͅe̴̶͍͚͙̱͐ͦ̿͊ͅr̈ͯ̈́̏ͯ́ͯ̏̎ͯͪ͐̊͗ͪͬ͢͏̼̰̺͉̥̝͢͝ ̴̻̼̣̟̽͐̓̍̑͊ͩn̷͚͚̱͖̻̗͚͔̪͎͎̻͕̜̥͇̫̙̖ͭ̾̈́ͫ̏͐ͫͫ̇ͣͪ̽̽͟o̵̢̢̥̠͖̫̬͚̮̙̖̞͉͕̟̙̫̬͔̪̭̊̓̊͋͜ ̧̐̀̏̈̋̇̾̉̚̚͠͏҉̮̣͍̻̭̮͍͠mͦ̄̽ͤ̎̒̔̓͞҉̢̰̜̭͓͖͍̰͙ͅaͮ͒̽͂̏҉̜̖̲̙͈̰̠̦̱̹͚̦̥͉̺̲̙̗̦t͖̺͚̤ͣ͋̎ͣͯͨ͛͗͠͠tͬ͂̀ͤ͋̎ͤ̃̋͏̢̡͎̝͈̮͍͈͉̦͝ê̢̪̺͓̬̼̻̏̈͢͞r̵̜̰͎̲͚̣̤̣̘̜͒̔͂͛͒̃͘ͅ ̶̛̜̰̤͕̬̣̬̤̗̝̪̜̻͍̣̖̣̐̍ͥ́͋ͭͮͮ͛̇̌͌̐̈ͮ̚͠͡ͅṉ̵̵̖͇̥̘̼̞͙̗ͥ̈̈́ͤ̾ͬ́̑̄̈́͌̑͗͢o̡̾͛̈͂ͤ̀̋͒̆ͫ̍͏̣̗͉̣̝͍͕͕͙̯̜̘̮̪ ̨̡̜͙͕̳͎̙̉ͯ͌̈́͐m̸̡͎̩̖̜͚͔̬͂ͤ͂̔̾̊ͭͭͧ͑̏ͬ̍ͥ̚á̡̨̗̪̭̺̼͔̮̜͋̇̈́̽ͪ̌̍̂̈́͂̕t̒ͯͯͧ͛͌ͣ͌͋͗̉ͬ҉̛̪͍̟͖̱̳̳͈̜̤̹̳tͬͣ̔̔̾͆̊͟҉̸̱̥̼̜̠̟̞̠̳̹eͣ͛̈́ͤͩ̎̿ͧͪ̚͝͝҉͍̖̖̦̘̖̲͍̹̝̭̥̹͇̙r̷̖͚̮̖̜̥͇̙̮̯͂̍̓̇̅̓̇̀ͯͬ̋ͤ̒͛ͨ̚ ̶̢̛̌̄͊̃̏̽̉̓ͤ̎͂̊͆̈͆̚̚҉̟̜͓̻̭n̸ͥ̂̐̆ͨ҉̨͏͖̲̞̺̖̜̮̳̜̬̱̬̣͕ő̔̉̃͏̥͕ͅ ̶̷̶̧̟̟̙͎͂ͦ̂̊̓̃̓ͩͦ̎͌ͦ̍̍̈ͫͨ̈́m̡̛̺̖̙̤͈̜̱̬̤̲̹͍ͪ͊ͣ̆̐ͤ͛ͭ̌͗̓͘͠a̷̶̦̱̟̱̘͔̪͔̫̖̫ͮ̿ͯ̎̈͂ͬ͑̔͆͗̆̍͟͝ͅt̡̨̛̛͉̯̙̖̮̖̫̦̖̖̖̮̲̥̦̔̋̄̀̋̌͌͆ͯ̏ͮ̽͒̽t͉̗͉̼͙͈̺̰̬̩͆͂ͨ͛ͥ̆͋̆͠͡e̙̙͍͇̺̺̱͕̞ͩ͐̀͆ͬ̋̎̿͞͡ȓ̯͉̫̠̲͕͓͇̤̱̱͉̀̀̄̀̒͂ͪ̒͊́͋̚͝͠ ̶̤͓͖̰̲̤̫̼̱͇̦̯̲ͪ͆̅͐̊̑̊͛ͫͬ̀̇͋͝n̵̰̭͔͓̻̪̥̔̃̎ͫ̾͟͝o̶̡̭͈̠̪̦̻ͤ̋͐̃̿ͥ͒̊ͅ ̒͒ͯ̄͂̏̓̉ͥ̍̂͏̶̡̟̺̘̣̣̩̱͍͈͖̖̻͈͓̱̫͜͢m̸̼̣̪͈̩̮̦͚̫̮͓̦̬̗͌̔̊ͣͮ͑ͬ̿ͮ̈́ͣ͡ȧ̔ͩ̆̋̐̑͂̏ͪ͌ͪ̋̆ͮ́̚҉̢̛̱̤̱̠͖̲̦̥̜ͅt̷̵̷̺͓̪̲̣̦̮̱͚͎̙̭ͯͩ͆̽͂ͅt̔̇̀҉̡̨̹͎͙̤e̛ͦ͐̔ͥ̓ͪͭͣ̐̅̈́͛̚͜͟҉҉͕̙̣̟̻̰͚̺ͅr̸̆̂ͯ͂̓ͫͤ̿ͤ̋̆҉̨̻̬͔͓̦͓̖̻̜͙̫̖̤̱͓͓̰a̡͈͇̞̗̍̎͊ͤ̒̌ͪͩ͊̑͛͌͑̌̾͆̏̕͝͠t̀̅ͯ͊̓ͩ̿͏̷̡̺͖̪͙̮̱͓ͅţ̴͓̙͇͈͙̘̰͇͖̖̬͎ͤͣͦͯ̎̒ͣ̓̀e̿͂̀̊̎̐̔ͤ̎͋̈ͮ̓̎͌͏̩̮̬̰̘̙̲͢͠͠͞r̄͛̈͌͑͑̂̓ͥ̍͗͒̚͏͎͇̜̼̦̫͢ ̡̧̢̳̯͓͇̘̲̜͕͉̫͍̦̤̲ͧͮ͗̓̄ͯ̎ͥͦ̽ͪͬͯ̂͊̚n̷̵̨̨̛̫̺̺̫͉̞͓ͥͦ̓́͐̈͛ở̴̠͔̤̠̪̙̣̙̱̹͖̘̥͎̹ͩ̌̇͆̎̑̿̿̈́̉ͨ̿̀͢ͅ ̵̛̜͚͓̰͑͐͗͗̂̃ͮ͋̽̇ͭ̍ͦ͑ͤ͟m̸̙̟̖̲̯̰̪͐̊͌͛ͨͩ̇̇̉͛ͯ̂̃͜a̴̷̡̜̰̻̣̪ͩ̌͂̉́͑̒͑ͤͩ͐̽͂́̃̚͞t̹̫̦̥ͪ͑͊ͮͨͫ̄̈́ͦͯ͘t͊̐̔̓ͩ͂̉́҉͙̯̜̥͈̮̟͚̞̖͇e͛̽̓͆҉͈̞̗͚̟̕r̨̜͎̲͈͓͈̳̦͎̻͖̺̝͚̖̻͕̤̩̈́̈́ͧ̈́ͪ̓ͨ͋ͧ͐ͬ̾ͨ͠ ̴̢̧͓̺͔̝̰̯̭͕ͧ̅̈́̎̅̍͢n̢̻̳̠̞̭̖̝̬̮̥̖̊̋͐̾͡o̶͉̮̥̭̙̺͈̻̝̭̞͖̙͔̩͙͑̎͐̊̈́͆̔͊ͭ̄ͮ̀̽͗ͫ̆͌͒͘ ̴̷̧̢̲̖̳̦̩̙̪͈̠͈̤̼͎̉͊̾̏͠m͗ͦ̿́͛̓̓̍̋̈ͣ̏͛ͧͯͫ͢҉҉̜͓̭̳͖̹̖̘͇̤͈̗͔̘̗̟̯̯̘â̘̟̠̮͙̼͆̄̔͆͒́̿̋͊̉̈̊̒̓͝͞t̷̛̯̻̩̬̝̙̯̮̖̤̼̙͕̩͙̬̓͑ͭ͆ͯ͡ͅţ̮̗̦̻̠̣̙̟̭̗̞̳͓͐ͩ̎̀ͩ̂ͥ͂ͬ̎̒͂͂͋̿̾̽͘ͅͅe̶̶̷̴̡̖̪̠͎̝͔͙͗ͨ͌ͫ͒͂͋͗ͅr̪̤̳̥͉̘͇̺̳̠͇̫̭ͫ̈́͛̆̔̂̃̉͒ͮ̒͠͠͠ ͫ͂̈́͏̧̮̻̯͓͈͎͕͓̰̩͍̘̮͇̭n̷̰͙̝͙̮̭̤̻͈̄ͤ̿͆ͫ̉ͧ̀ͯͤ̌͞͝ͅơ̡̼̜͚̣̗͈̬̘̮̫ͦ̓̋̓ͮ͐͌ͅ ̢̧̢̟̼̯̫̹̞̬͔͙͔͙ͪ̉̐̄̐̽̋͑͑̈́͛͒ͧ̅ͣͦ͛͒͝ͅm̴̡̺̯̦̟̩͕͇͓͉̮̹̯̒ͭ͂̿ͭ̉̍ͩͬ̃͜ͅa̿̀̏̽̓̉͒ͪ̈́̿̂̚҉̦̩̠̞̞̮͎͙̜͙̗̺tͬͪ̀̆̉͊̍́̔͒ͤ̊ͥ͌͛̓͏̨͇͉͔̝̻̫̭̭͓͞t̶͔̦͉̥̜̣̩͔̜̖͓͈̙̻͖̀ͥ̍͌̑̃̎͋̚̕ͅe̢̲̟͎͈̥͙̜͑ͮ̒̓̽ͤ̉ͤ̐̿ͬ́̅̽̀̅̚r̵̛̙͕̯̠̬̫̺̣̼̖̯̰̣̺͗̑̃̽̍̈́͋̃̓̋͋ͣ̊̆ͣ̿͗ͦ̕͡ ̡̧͍̹̞̩͚͙̠̠̪͍̰̻̱̹̳̊ͪ̓̍̿̐̍̓͢ͅͅṇ̢̥̖͓͔̺͈͍̞͙̣̭̺̻̖̮ͬ͌ͩ̔̃̌́̋̔̽͝o̶͙̣̼̲̞̮̟̘ͮ̔ͬ̓̆̍̿͌͛̿͊̌ͤ͛͌̄͑̕ͅ ̷͙͖̟̩̞͇̹̜ͤ̊̉͆̋ͭͪ͋̂͋͟m̽ͯͨ͌ͮͭ͋͟҉̪̳̺̻̤̤̺̤ą̶̨̡̗͉͖̻̻̯̤͛͂ͩ̐̉ͩ̿̆̊̓ͦͨ͒ͧ̄̎̓̐̈̕ẗ̊̓̈́͆̎̐̃̔͞͠͏̞̺͙͕͙̫̗̻̗͈͔̮̜̘̮̜͚͚͔͘͟t̸̛̺̝̮̝͉͙̟̯̥̹̜͕͆͑̾ͯ̿͊͒̃ͯ̈̐̔̌͌͛̐̽͟e̬͉̲̲̮̥̪͙̜͈͙̫͇͇̗̳̬̪̅ͦ̇̈ͫ̉̑͊̉ͤ̀͊̈̏̕͡͝rͨͩ̓̈͛͛ͭ̇̐̈̉͋̍̓ͯ̓͏̸͕̦͖͈͎̝̹̪̰̤̟͉̲͖͔͙̯ ̧̽̆ͥͤͫͭ̎̍͊͊ͨ͒͟҉̢͚̪͕̬̹͎͉̼̪͎̱͖̬̤̦͇̳ͅņ̢̨̠̬̩̼̟̠̻ͤ̆̓ͩ͂̒͗͐ͥ͂̅̅͢o̹̯̗̤͍̩̖̘̫̜̦̺͖͈̖͔̮̹̫ͪͨ̌ͩ̅̆̿̂̍ͬ́͟͞͡ ̶͓̩̲̭̦̦͇͕̳̺̜̠͔̤̯̈́̍͐ͨ͂̀ͅͅm͂͊͑ͣ̂͌̂̐ͦ͗̋̊̏ͧ̈̄͐ͪ͏̶̷̸̥͙̜̩̬̤͎͖̘̙̖̘̙̦̘̻͠a̵̛̤̯̬͖̱͛͆͊ͦͫ̍ͯ͌̽̂ͮ̊͗͌̂̚ͅt̂̅̓̈́̾ͤͣ̏̏̽ͣ̇̽ͧͬ͂̅͠͝҉̢̱̠͇̞̟͓̞̹̲̣͕̱̱̘̝t͔͙̱̮̹̪͇̞̣̻̣̣̜̰́ͮͯ̿͆͋͞e̡̧͙͔͖̗̦͉̘̗̊̄̊̊͂ͣ͞ṙ̛̖̺̪͚͚̜͖̖͎̤̙̜͌̈̔̅̽́ͅ ̴̷̡̛̰̪̦̮͚̻͈̳̃̎ͣͫͮ̂̓̈̐̀̾ͪ̚̚͟n̶̷̛̮̰͎̮͙̖̠̫̟͕̪̲̪͖͇̹͔̟̉ͩ͐̆̑̆o̡̟̭̜̦͔̬ͩͪ̏̿̈́̈̓͐͜ ̶̜̘̰͈̖̲͓͈̤̩̪ͯ̅̈̇̎̔̇͛̌͜ͅm̛̪̘̥͕̫̹̬̹̞̘̘̟̝͕̦͖̘͌̑ͥͧ͂ͦ̍̋ͦͨ͆̓͗͒̆͋̑͝ͅa̬͇̺̦̻̤͔̲̬̰̙̬̤̻͓̳̞̣̋̀̒̋ͩ͛͗̑ͪ̕͞͞t̡̐ͤͦ̐ͤ͛͏̦̤̱͎̜̟̼̻̘͇̯̝͉̖̰̭̘̖̰t̶̖͍̻̙̝̗̳̘͉̗̭̠̀̍͐̀̌͊ͯ͑ͪ̓ͪ̏̋̕e̷̢̠̩̼̫̳̣̳ͦͨͦͤͭͧ̎̓͠ͅŗ̛̩̲͎̣̥̥̱͕̯̄ͧ͋̌͂͑̓͑ͯͯ̇̒̽̾̍ͩ͂̚͢ ̵̧̤͎̠̋̿̇̀̊͑ͧͯͬ̚̚̚ṋ̷̡̠̝͍̝̥̣̯͓̮͇̯ͩͩ̒͊͋̍̿͌̄̇̇̿͑ͫ͌̈́͌̽̚͞͞o̶ͤ̔̎̾̊͏̵̘̫̤͓̝̥̼͔͎̺̤̝ ̩͖͖͍ͧͤ͛ͩ̂̈́̓́̆̊ͤ̄̐̔ͧ̊̐̚̚͢͠͡m̷͓͓̘̘͉̻̖̉͐ͣͮͧ̌̃͊̒ͯ̈̚͝a̷̤͙͉͔̝͇̭ͤ̾̎̐̊̏̿̿̄ͫͨ͢͢͟tͯͫ͋̑̿ͭͯ̊͟͜͏̝͚͇͙͚̬̣̰͙̲̹̩͈̖̺̗͜ͅͅt̴͆͌̈ͦ̈ͥ͛̽̉͆͏̵̸̲̮̥̝̤̲̤͕͕̣̝͕̜eͨ̽ͮͭ̀͂̚͏̸̪̦̙̪̪̰̻͚̪͢ŗ̶̙͕͖̯̜̹̥̦̜̯͖ͬ͆̄͊͑̎͞ ̧̧̗̟̼̞̥̰͈͉̣̰̹̭ͭ̈́ͨ̊̉͋ͬ͟n̴̺̲̟̣͖͕͙̫͚̣̗̣̱͇͚̝̗̝̂̔ͮ̈́ͮ͆ͪ̅̊͞ͅo̢̧͔̥̳̞͂̓̿ͨ̌͗ͩ͂ͥͫ̄͌ͯ̚ͅ ͫͩͭ̋ͬ̄̑̀̓ͮ̐҉̧̩̺͖̻͍͙̰̥̬̜͕̮̯̗m̢̺̹̩̙͔̪̼̤͙͎̖͍͎̥͈͇͆ͩ͋̄͑̊̾̂ͣ̈ͯͥ̕͟͞ā̧͙͙̭̱̟̙̱͇͙͕̉̒̀͂ͫͧ͝ͅt̶̩̯͇̤̟̫̝̯͈̱͉̺͉̤̜̤̟̯ͯ̊ͮ̂ͣ̆͂ͫ͒͟ţ̴͖̼̘̗͉͙͇͙̰̜̞̹͇͊̽̄̎ͯ̂̿̇͢͢ẽ̶̷̳̩͈͈̥͇͇͔̻͚̮̮̲̱̪̰̈̽̑ͤͬͅr̃ͪͬ̔͂ͨ̇͜҉̡̖̭̙͎͈̦̪͕̭̭̹̭̯̘̩͜ ̡̢ͪͥͭ̋ͣͪ̑ͣͤ̿͂͑̈́ͥͪͭ͢҉͓̟͚̺̝̜̗̯̙̗̼̼̘̳̟ñ̜͍̼̲̱̭̦͙ͩ̒̆̄͂͊̏̏ͣͤ͊̓͗̔͂̕͟͜͝o͆ͩͬ̅͌ͫ̈́̄͛ͦͮ̀͒̿̚҉̠͎̠͖̙̪͖͓͕̠̮͍ ̴̼̘̭͇̟͎͉͖̹̼̘ͬ̌͛̎ͥ͒ͦ̆͞m̷̟̥͚̰͗ͧ͊̐̔̈͒̈̿ͣ͒̈ͫ́̀̆͜͢ͅȁ̶̬̼̰̱͈̘̪̱̖̜̻̞̰͂ͭͤ͋̄̇ͤ̾̍̿̊̚t̲̪̩̠̜͕͚̫͕̬̦̙͍̳͙̦͇̍̎̈́̄ͪ̓̈́̉̿͋̓̀͗͠ţ̵̴̙̭̤͙̮̠̘͖̼ͧͨ̔ͮ̀̄ͨͧ̈ͤ͗ͨ̒̅͊ͪͅȩ͕͓̖̰̝̬̘̰̼̹͙͙̮̟̤͓̣͙̫͒̋͌̕r̴͙̺̻̞͔͕͙͉̰̣̥̰͉̬͙̰̠̯̓̅͌̅̏͑ͤ̓ͫ͑̔ͯ̅̅ͤ͊̎̚̚͟ ̢̢̛ͨ̓̐̎ͩͥ͟҉͓̮̣͍̝n̵ͯͥͭ̅ͬ̐ͪ͛̂҉̛̲̣͔̦̰͢ṍͭ͊ͫ̒̈̄ͫͨ͢҉̯̙̙͈̮͎̖̳͍ͅ ̵̨̟̥̘̹̦̭̰̗̫̤̮̮͚̥̬̪̰͑̒̓̿̎͋ͨ̏ͣ͒ͫ̋ͨ̅̑͒ͪ͂m͙͇̖̖̩̦̖̱̼̜̖̯͓̜̈̓̑͐̓̂͒̃͘͝͡ą̲͙̗͔͔͕̦̖̟̰͗ͨ̃ͤͅt̷̷͕̞̜̩̼̺̭̭̤̦̯̰̝͔͕̼͕̣ͥ͆͒ͦͧͭͨ̿ͤ͂̊ͥ̉̍ͦ́͡t̺̹̲̲̬̹̥̝̟̩̖̳̻̲ͬ̍̇̈ͯ̑̌ͨ̓̒̋ͫ̀͆͛ͯ̄ͣ͢͠e̴̵̸̪̟̰̱͙͈̮͂̔̒̒̃͜͢r̘̪̮̮̥̰͙͕͙̞̿̔̅̾ͨ̓ͤ̈̃́͋̍̉̇ͬͣ̚͢͞ ̛̜̥̲̖̦͈̭̞͓̦̳ͯ̓̏͊̏̈͐̒̈ͮ͛ͯ̑̈͋̈̕ͅņ̷̷̛̭̳͚̗̲͔̦̟̗̲̫̤̬̗̊ͭ̆̓̎ͤ͊ͤ̂̈͒̒̈ͮ̚o̢̮͉͍̗̤͈̲̹̩̻͉̼̦̙͉͌͛͂ͦͪͯͯͯͩ̈́̃̍̓͐̈͑͝ ̸̏ͩͮͣ͗̾ͪ́̾̏͌ͫ̉̊͒ͣ̇͏̶͚͚̲̹͕͓̘͕͖̬̳̥͖̦̤

  
  


m̸͆̐̂̽ͧͯ͏̛̼͉̙̹͘͢ā̸̧͔͍̗͙̺͔̹̥̘ͪ̿̉̍̏ͯ̍̿ͯ͒̐̓͌ͬ͋͛̚͞ͅt̸̨̩̤͖̞̳̱͌̓̈́̅̂̓̌̄̄̑̽̄́̏̿̍ͥͨ͠ͅt̷̨̢̘̘͍̺͇̾͛̿͂ͤ̒ͯͨ̑̈̄̊͐̑͆̚̚͘͞è̅̄ͮ̋ͨͪ̑̍̇̓̀̊̽̋͋͐̅̈́͠͏̡̱͓̲̲̭͓̪͇̜̙̼͈̳̤͉r̵̶̛̠͇̳̫̠̺̝̤͓̥̪̘̮̙̬̝̰̪͐̐̓́͜͢ ̴̢̡̙̣̝̥̤̤̩̰̲̎͊̋͊ͨͪͧͭ͌̊̉nͮ̒̐͆ͫ̄̋̌̐ͧ҉̞̭̪̘̕oͪ̾̀ͤ͏̶̴̗̻͖̣̘ ̡̅ͮ̾ͨ͂́ͭ̄̾͑̆͑̈́̾͜͡͏̟̜̦̺͔͕̟̹̮̩͈̼̼m̷ͧͮ͌̿͐ͫͯͩ̈҉͝҉̢̮͇̙͕̳̭͕̩̩͍͓͖̖̬͙͙aͤ̊́̈́̐͌͒̐ͨͯ̊͛̉̊̓ͤͥ̚҉̶̷̛̻͙͍̲̘͈̥̩̬͙̪̩̹̘̪̻̬͚͢t̡̧̨̫͙̝̱̦̹̜̟̫͐́ͩͫ̍͌̊ͯ̃̏ͯ͋̑̾ͦ̓̕t̷̶͖̰̤͈̮̼̭͓̤̦̊̎̏̌ͨ͗̾ͬͦͣ͋̓ͬ̇̄̚̕͝e̸̴̢̺̬̠̗̣̰̮͙̗͂̋ͫͧ̔̑̐̏ͥ͌̂̃͂́ͦ͝͞r̵̸̯͉͓͙͔͓̥̥͕̼̱ͥͧ̃͌̄̃̊ͫ̽́̕͡ ̨̖͔̪̦̣͉͔̳̞̼̠̬̟̄ͤ̔̄̾ͥ̀̄ͤͮͣ̀͘n͚̩̪͍͈̟̲͉̙̟͙̫͉̪ͮ̍̉͂͌ͥ͜͢o̶̢̺̻̲̭̠̭̠̼̳̰͑̔̇̍̍͗ͩ͑͌͂ͧͩ̚ ̧̡̑̊ͧͧ̓̐ͭ̏ͭ̒̌ͥ͗̍҉͚̳̼͚̩m̲̼̗̱͍̻̫̼̣͔̘̦̙͉̿ͥ̀ͭͦ̚͝͝ͅa̵̩̦̝̺̣̥̭̫̜̾ͯ͑̋̊̐̆̏͞ͅͅt̷̢̡̪͙̞͕̺͑̈̄̌͗ͬͭ̇̃ͦͯ̿͠t̢̡̨̥̦̘͈̦̜̿ͭͪͯ͐ͪͫ̒̃̄e̴͇̜͚̦̬̩͎̜̰̼̟̺̮̩̜ͪͦ̈̿̆ͣ̇ͦ̃͒r̵̢̻̜͓͇͎͎̺̻͖̹̼̻͇͖̣ͤ̏̅ͤͭ̀͝ͅ ̨͂͗̃ͩ͗̾̎͘͏̜̼̤̤̠̲͇̹ͅn̡̯̙̯͔̲̣̂ͦ͐̋̿̿ͧ̓ͩ̈́̍̚͢ô̸̑̊̂̓̈́̈́̕̕͏̖̖͕̜͓͙̤̥ ̷̵̨͈̻̦̩͙̻̣̦̰͎͖̪͐̌ͥ͋̅̆͊̿͐ͭͯ͛̏̉͆̿̌m͓̙̟͉̝̝̭̥̙͎͔͔̂̃̌ͫͭ̅͂̈́̈́͘͜ͅa͂ͪͣͮͪ̃̇̾̽ͦ̿ͨ̑ͧͤ͐ͫ͏̢̱̯̖̺͎̹͖͔͈̞̬̻̲͎̭̫̗̕͟ͅţ̶̴̢̭̣̯̪̻̏ͬ͌̿̓͆̓ͬ̌̇t̡͕̟͈̜͉͙͖͎̖̯̤̭̺̒̓͒ͫͥͤ̍͐ͯ͛͗͛ͮ͗͛̃ͭ͗̚̕͞ḙ̥͈̠̞̗͑͑̾̐̎̊̎̌ͥ͜͞r̴̥̱̼͍̼̙͎͇̖̝̜̹͋̌̈́̏̂́͊ͪͯ̔̒͟͞ ̷̯͈͕̯̘̘͎̮̭̹̤͙͉̻̯͇͋͗̄̉ͮͫ͒̏̎ͭ͋͋̄̕͢͢͠ͅn̶̙̱̣͎ͣͦ̑ͯ̌̈́ͪ̎͑̔͜͟o̵̧̼͇͙̦̺͎̞̠̰̱ͮͦ̔ͨ͒̇̽̕͘͜ ̡̛̟̱̘̥̘͉̮ͨ̀͐ͣͦ̂͆͗ͤ̏̌ͩ̋̋̓ͩ̽m̨̰̗̹̣̤̗̬̟̻͚̪͚̾ͤ̋͒͗̃́ͧͫ̏̍ͩ́ͯ̾̅̑̿̚ͅaͮͭͤ̽̑̿́͋̓̍̅ͦ҉̫͔̭̖͕͍̟͠t͋ͧ̏ͩ̑̎̅͠҉̛̦̰̠̖͘t̷̸͖̱̣̣̹͈̖̜̞̹͕̤͚̖͓͐̊̀͊͛͛͋ͫͨͭͭ̋͋͛͗ͨ̚̕͟͜ę̛ͯ͂ͦͪ͏͈̺̹̻̮̬̞rͫ͂ͣ̓͛̄ͬͭ̏̽͊̽̔̈́͗̇̿͜͏̲̭͔̞̮̬̼̮̱̲̙̠̙̻̲̻̜̮̘ ̧̢̡̛̺̦̳̖͚̳͙̍ͯ͐̇͝n̞͖͉͕̯͓͍͚̩̠̪̣͙̄̎̔̄̈́ͮͦͦͨ̓ͧ̓ͣ͒͟o͆ͨ͊͋͘҉̜̼̗̝̙̬͚ ̨̺̳̝̯̘̱͍̖̙̰͙̐ͩ̌̍ͮͣ̉ͤ̀͟m̸̧̯̲͈̭͔ͦ̇ͪ̏̆͛̅̐̀̊̍̓̕͜ͅͅa̸̧̜̯͇͕̻̟ͭͪͪ̈́ͬ̍ͫ̐ͧ͞t͋̽̄̏͆̈̾ͥ̄̽͐̄̚͏̸͏̨͚̫̟̗̜̞̻̭̗̭͖͇̪̱͓͔̮̳tͭͫͥ̏̀̓ͥ̎̅̍͒̽̑̃͊̇͏̷̢̭̫̩̠ͅe̵͇̖̬̺͙̠̣͙̺͙̺̥̮̝̤ͬͩ̽̏̅ͧ͑ͦ͌͗ͥ͋̚̚͟r̸ͨͦͯ͐̅͏̘̠̻̟͕̖̙̫͙̻̫̫̹̪ ͗̔ͬ̈́̿̒͒̃̓͐̋̋ͤ̊̆ͪͫ͏̷̢̧͇͇̙̬̙͍̣̼̫͙͚̬̟̻̣̰̦͈͈ń͋͌ͥͪͨ̓̓͏̞̮͈͘ȍ̠͉̗̥͈̫͕̗̜̰̘̆͊͋ͫ͠ ̵̷̸͔̲͇̹̦̭̫̜͉̺̝̠̘̰̫̯̫̦ͦͣͯ͑͊ͯ̈͂̎̂͒ͤ̍͘m̹̪͈̜̹̺̙͖̣̗͔͙ͪ̉̿͗̿ͯͯ̑͆ͫͯ̽̊̔̆͆̽͐͞͠a̴̴̘͕̣̗̒͗̾͌͛̔̑ͧ͋̌͋͋̓ͫ͂t̨̧͍̥̟͕̹͉̞̬͉́̓ͤ̎̃̉̂̑t̸̩͔̦̤̥̰̲͉͍̭̣̾͊ͪͤͨͥͮ͑͒͒̓̊̑͠ȩ̴͆̋͒̊͜͠͏̻͍̫̩̹̥̮͚͎͕̫r̴̶̸̬͔̥̪̮̟̞͗ͥ̿ͥͤ͐̄̽ͣͯ͛̑̃̽ͭ̊͘ ̵̸̧͕͚̼͔͙̪̆̋̍̒ͣ̇͆͊ͭ̿ͬ͊ͩ͐ņ͈͎̯͎̩̹͉̙̭̭͎̣͔̤͇ͦ̏̽̈ͬͪ̍͌̀̈́͑͝o͓̮̭͙̽ͪͥ͆̇̊͂͂͑̎̾̀ͦ͠ ̸̵̦̜̱̱̫͈̮̣̜ͦͬ͆̆̌̅̃̉̂ͯ̍͝m̨̠̪̙̖̥͉̃̐̎ͯͣ̍̃͒̾͋̍ͬͩ̒̇̍̎͆̚͠ͅà̸̶͔͕̫̪̭̟͎̱̳̝̠͍͕̳̣͇̩̝͕͐̈́͗͟ţ̥̲͚̝̻̱̗͉̔͆́ͧ̓ͥ͐̅͌̚͝͝t̏̾ͫͪ̏̾̄̽̚͏̴̹̲̻̣̯̠̖̹̞̳ͅë̓ͧ̓̐̎̓̋̔̒ͧ̌ͤ̐ͪͨ҉̴͔͎̩͙̭̺̥͔̬̫̲̱̟̘̻r͒ͧͭ̌ͧ͋ͫͦ̽̽ͨͪͧ̏̈͂͌͏̦̙͕̟̩͎̤̙̩̠̮̣̝̪̗͔̙ͅȧͧͬ̇ͯͭ͗̍̄̓̓͛̔̍͊͑ͬ͘͜͝҉̨͍̦͙̼ť̶̶̛̞̦̦̳̻͉̤̥̦̳̱̲ͥͪͭ͛̆ͯt̨̛͉̼͎̘͓͔͔͈̫͍̬̿̉̍̅̀̽ͩ́͑̾̓͡ȩ̵̩̟̯̮̫̫̳̝͂͋̀͌r̶̵̔́̒͗̅͌͋́ͨ̊ͥ͆͛̊̐̀̔ͬͫ҉̟̯̳͖̰͔̥̟ ̧̡̭̭̤̭̪̺̝̺̮̗̦̪̱̹̤̣ͦ̅ͪͦ̿̉̓̐ͫ̚͜n̶̓ͤ̍̐̐ͤͨ͐͋ͤ͊̆̂̂̚͡͏͇̻̫͓̰̖̟̙̩̪̤͖̟ͅo̴̬͎̝͎̬̰̹̝̲͈͓̯͂̐ͫ̏̂ͣ͢͝ ̡͇͈̤̟͇͉̠̭͖͔̱͍̥̰̊̌̍ͭͤͦͮ̂̒̐̔̾m̷̡̝̦̺͇͚̣̓̈́́̈́͐̎ͬ͞aͬͥͤ̂̾͒ͭͥ̑ͮ͐҉͉̹͇͚̼̪̤͓̳͙͍̬̻̗ť͋̾ͪ̾͛ͭͮ̍͆̊͐ͤ̓̚̚҉̛̱͚̥̞̱̟͇̱̙͕͎͚ͅt̸̴̸͐͆͊̌̇ͭͭͮ̇̋̈͂̇̆҉͎͎͉̮̦͙̬͉̞̗̥͉̺̯͢ȩ̢̽̒̽͊ͩ̀̍̆̓ͧ̃͊ͪ̚҉̹̤̮̠̩̫̱̼̥͉̱͘r͗ͣ̂͌̐ͧ҉̸̴͔̬̞̖ ̧̧͖̬͚͔̤̠̺̦̰̱̦̼̥̝̝̘̹̜̾̅ͦ͗̄ͣ̇͂̇͜͝ͅn̸͉̫͙̰͙͚̱̱͕ͯͤ́̇̓̽ͥͮͤ̾̈̿̆̉̆ͣ̈͌̕͞o̡̧̱͚͓̯͓̱̟̟͔̝͈̺̼͚̺͎̊̃̍̄͆̓̇ͥ̏̍̎̔ͣ̄̎̇͘͟ͅ ̮͇͔̟͍̳͓͚̹͍͚̒ͮ̈̍ͥͩ͒̕ͅmͯ̔͑ͭ̈́̆҉҉̦̝͉͉̳̭͚̘̳̲̳̥͓̻͕ͅą̶̱̝̼̩ͭ̔̋ͣ̈́ͫͮ̒̊ͮ̒ͬ̚͡͠t̴̨̡̛̠̫̘̭͔͙̗͍̊͋̑͌͗͑͠ť̙͕̰̦͔̻̭͖̗̣̥̝̫̦͖̠͍̩͕͆̈́̃͋̅̌͐͑̈̒̿ͧͦͧ̕ę̟̫͚̠̱̪̌̓͑ͭ͘͞ŗ̸̛͉̘̠͇̭͚̰̤̳̙̜̫͈̉̌ͪͦ̏͋̇́̎̃̅̈̈́̔̏ͥ̅̿̚̕͟ͅ ̸̴̡̛̥̙͙̤̑͐͋̒̑̀͆̿͗̍̑̿͒̈́̐͐̈̋ͪņ̡̛̫̭͓̝̳̭̯̠̙̥͈̜͇̝̱̟͈ͭ̐͋ͧ̒̂̕͢o̴̟̻͙̺̝̙̼͈ͥ͐ͨ̍ͧ̿͆̈̋͑͑ͦ̈́ ̨̛̜̯̳̯̙̺̣̯̻̪̱͆̔̇ͥͥ̓͂̏ͥ̇̑̒͂̌͒ͧ̊̒͜͞ͅm̸̵̞̼̣̰̩͙͉̖͔̓̍͑ͬͤ́̽͋ͦ͗͐ͬ͝a̧͌ͦ̉͂̿ͣ҉̷̥̘͎͉̱̪t̢͕͚̘̻̜ͫ̆ͤ̎̆̈́̒ͬ̿͢͞͠t̡̳̜̝̱̬͉̹͚̰̣͚̯͎̰̞̟̿̒̆ͨ̀͒̽ͧ̈ͪ̈́̂͌́ͭ͋͂͘ḙ͚̗͇̰̯̮̠̜̹̬̼̭͂̌͊͌̔ͤ̑͘͟ͅr̶̨͍̤͎̩̐ͧͩ̉ͩ̒ͭͧ̍̑ͭͫ͌͋̿̐ͦ ͩ̑̉͆̔ͬ͑҉̺̫͕͔̳͉̭̱̝͕̼͔̹̗̮̥͢n̴̶̨̼̼̜̻̜̟̩̰̼̤̠͖̝̫̣͇̋ͦ͑̄͜ͅó̴̡̨̮̬̩͚͚̫͖̼̲̼̗̞̞̭͍̣͇̼̟̅ͤ̿̉ͨ̑̎ͤͮ͗ͯ̋ͯͤͦͬ̐̅͡ ̛͓̦̜͍͇̬͍̘̻͎̫̓̈́͆͂̍͑͒̋ͮ́͢͢m̶̷̶̢̨̲͍̘͈͇͂ͯ͋ͪ̒̾͌͂͋ͨ̋̋̿͌̊͂ͪ͋̂ͅâ̌͆́̔̉ͤ̽̈̉̂ͦ͏̵̰̹͕̖͓̲̰̟̳̰̱̭͈͉͕͔t̉ͦ̾͑̊ͨͯ̽̂͛̄ͫ͂҉̵̢͙͕̳̘tͣ̊̑̄̃ͤͯ̇͂̌ͭ̎̏̀̚͘҉̷̷̝̜̭̣̣̦̟̤̖̠̲̜ͅͅͅe̖̼̙͚̼̮͙̥̹͈̘̗̭̊̑̿ͭ̇͢͞ͅr͚̪̩̳͔̯̜̩̲̮̯̗̘̣̩̣̪͆ͥ̆̔͗̏̏̅̍ͤ̋͑ͪ̿͒̅͆ͯ́̕̕ ̸̼͓̱͍̣ͬ̾̿̐͐͛ͨ̎ͤ̚̚͞n̢͚̲̭̬̮̘̰̩̬̈́͗͛ͩ̆̅̾̈́̕͘ǫ̥̪̹̱̳̜͔ͭ̽ͨ͐͡͞ ̨̛̛̥͙̬͚͚̠͈͕̠͇̝̥̬̞͇̻̏ͣ́̈ͅͅm̸̨͌ͭ̇̆̒ͬͭ̓ͭ̋ͫͪ̾͟͏̢͇̬̖̪̦̺̜ͅā̷̵̛̛̗̹̠̣͚̗̞̳͕̠̰̝̦͖͈̹̆͌ͫ̽̊̃t̛̳̻̲̝̂ͨͪ̆̈́ͥͪ͜t̡̢͚͍͙̗̗̩͙͙̪͉̽̂̓ͪ͐̈́͒͘͝eͬͫ̂ͯ͆ͩ̾̅̑̈̓̽͒̈ͯ͞͠͏̦̟̫͙̬͓̯̜̯̤͖̻̯̘̭͖͍̭͘r̡͉̠̞͇̲͚̗̰̫̦̂͊̓ͩ͘͝ ͧ̓ͧͧ͏҉̺̙̞̟͔̠͇̖̻n̢̢̯͎̯͚̜̖͚̗͙̓ͩͬͯ̅̃̾ͬͯ̎̍ͩ̆͘ȯ̵̗͇̩̼̻͎̱̹͂́ ̸̧̛̤̰̤̲̙ͩ̄ͧͫ̒͐̋͆̏ͯ͆̂ͦ͑̄̚m̶͔̭̠͎̖͙͎͓̣̗̐̽̊̿͟͟aͦ͂ͮͥ̂̒̒̆ͫ̓̓̿ͮ͋҉̭͓̥̟̭̯̖͉̭͚̤̱̮t̷̳̮̙̫͎͙͉͗̉̂̄̀͋̆ͤͯ͐ͪ͝t̸̥̱̹̬͍͎͆̇ͦ̈͌̅̒͝e̢̩̣̙͇͈̣͕̱̣̞̟̳͙̫̲͖͚͚̐̍͒͐̈ͣ͑̀͐͋̂ͧ̃̾̿̾͗̃̕͘͢ͅr̤͎̖͍̳̠̝̘̮̬̬ͥͧ̿̋̚̚͠ ̶̢͎͎̱͍͕̙̮͙̳̠̠̟̲͙͉̪͕̱̾͛̀ͭ̑ͧͦ̚͝ͅņ̷̱͕͈̞̎̑̐̓̃ͦ̆̆ͤ̎̆̒ͥ͐̿̌͂ͧo̡̹͙̪̖̝̙͖̩̦ͮͫͩͬ̂͑̾ͮ̏ͭͣ̃̄̚͜ͅ ͯ̓̃̎̓͂̔͒ͯ̎̈ͨ̈́͏̵͇̳̻̼̖̭̖̤̮̼m͈̺̫̤̱̣͉͚̽̍ͣ͆ͮͦ̑̾͗͗͠ȁ̿̓̎̿ͭ͠҉͏̗̟̞̤͜t̶͕̦͕̬̟̦͓̹̻̹̗́̾̽ͦ̆ͫ̌ͥͮ̑ͅt͒ͣ͌̉̀̋͗ͧ̽ͩ̌͋ͧ̚͢͞҉̧͈̮̼̗̭̰͢e̶̡̻̦͔͕͍̪̩̳̰̦̠͖̺̳̼̼̊͆ͬ͌ͨ͌̾̆ͪ̏͆̐̚͟͠ŗ̎͂͒̇͛ͧ͋̃͑ͤ͒ͣ̍̚͏̸̛̠̳̲̠͚͚̥͈ ̴̸͖̦͖͈̞̘̫͓͓̩̱͔̪̮̫ͫ̅̑̒ͬ̈́̓̃͌͒͢ṅ͒ͨͮͤͯ̑͊҉͔̜͖̟̹͘o̸̢͕͚̥̬͖̱̤̞͕̭̹̦̖̤̠͇͆̎͗ͬͭͥͯ͆̊̈́̈́̿ͯ̇͗̔͒ͮ ̡̛̛̲̞͈͕͌̐͐ͫ̇͟͡m̨̙̜̠̹̯͖̩̯͓̠͙̖͗ͩ̎̓̾ͯ̒̈ͥ̌̑͒͛ͯͦͮ̄͟ͅḁ̷̛̠̗̹͎̙͎̟͓̩̭͔̙͈̈́̆̽̈́̓̐͂̇̔̒ͣ̓ͮt̑̉̈́ͦ͒̄̍ͮͯͩ̌͛̕͢͝҉̵͖͙̟̳͔͚̤̠̤̥̥̘̥ͅṫ̷̨̡̺͕͕͔̲͚͓͈̳̘̬͙̖̖̘̑̾͑ͮ̒̏̃̈͌̈́̇̈́̅̂ͣ̾͟ę̴͎̱͙̻̫̜̪̟̞̠͓͉̬͑͒̿͑̏͑̎̌̑̈ͣͭͤ̏͢r̷̰͖̱͎̮͚̣̙̲̰̲̳̦̖͎͂̃̋̀ͭ͑͗̌ͥ͝ͅͅ ̵̩̳̯̲̣̟͓̯̳͖̜͇̠̫͎͛̂͐͒̄̒̄̿̀̋̌̌ͧͤ̔̍̚͝nͣ̃ͣ̉͒́̋̐̄ͪͮ̃͐̋̈́͑͞҉̹̱̥̻̙̮̲͕͙̬͓̦̤͚̩̞o͂ͨ́̊̿ͨ̈́ͥ̂ͥ҉͓̫̯͞ ́̇̀͋ͮ̉ͪ͗̅̎ͯ̈́͒̈́̐͛̍͒͏̨̢̮̻̳̟̙͍̤m̸̵̺̖͈͉̳̍͌͂͢ȃ̶̢̨̖͕̦̝̞͈͎̱̏̒̾͑ͩ̏́̒̀ͥͮt̤̗̳̭̠̻͇̼̞̤̱͓̥̖̗̻̯̘ͥ̽̐̆̂̐̽̓ͭ͛̅ͧ͒͗͂ͦ͐͠͞ͅț̛͖̠̯̝͔̜̮͚̰̭ͥ̍ͦ͒͛͋̃ͦ͘e̒̀̄̀̓ͭͩͩ̏̃̍̑̍ͮ̐̂͏̴͟͜͏͕̳̞̲͖͉̯̻̹̲̠̠̞͔̩͈̩͖r͋ͧ̑̀ͨ̇҉̛̗͎̯̰͓͇̠̮̝̯̼͚̫̯̟̼͜ ̻̜̻̫̬̱̜̥̝͙̣̖̞̭̬̺̠̪̘ͭ̅ͮͬ̚̕͠n̛͕̘̞̘̝̤͍͓̻̫̝̲̺̟̳̣ͨͪ̿͛͡͝ͅò͈̠̠͍̟͎̹͍̖͕͖͎̔ͮͤ͐̓̾͂̊̋ͣ͂̃̑̅ͭ͂̌̕͜ ̅͗͛̉̀̃ͬ̏̒̓͢҉̹͎͉̰̘̼̠͖͕͎m̶̺̣̮͈̯̫̫͇̰̪̈́̒̐͂̄́ͪͥͭ̑̔͂ͅa̷̺̮̘̠̟̼̘̦̐̑͋ͥ̈̔̐ͤͯ̋̓̌̆͒̌ͬ̓͘͘͢t̶̷̩͕͓̖̘͖̰ͭͫͭ̾͗̉ͫ͋̇ͣ͛́̋͛ͅt̡̛̻̮͉̯̪͖͐̂ͥ̋ͪ͗͟e̴͈̦͎̜͎̹͓̠̼̰͖ͩͭ̎ͭ͋̕͟ͅr̛̗͚̫̙̟̞̱̲̰̰ͩ̎͐͋̏̄̍ͮ͂̿̏ͥͮͯ̍͋̍ͩ͆̕ͅͅ ̸̯͎͔̱̦͖̗̮͉͚̼̼͌̉́̒ͭ͘ͅn̈͋̿͒͛ͥ̌͒̎̾ͭͮͪ̈́̂̈́͆҉̦̞͙̟̗̘̳̗̜̪͎͇̹̜̜̝͉̜ô̧̢̬͎̗̟͓̙̤͈̟͈̱͍͍̹͛ͪ̐͂̒͌͐͌́̇ͣ̇̍̒ ̧̡̖̟̺͍̱̠̬͕̜̲̖̹̪͊ͦ́̿̐̿̇ͫ̎ͭͤͧͦ͛ͩͬͬ̾ͦ͘

 

m̷̡͇͚͎̠̻̠͓̰̗͉͔͆̀̎͘a͌͒͌ͥ҉͓̝̼͇̦̲̲͈̙̺̹͕̦̳̦ͅẗ́͋͌ͬͦͧ͐ͪͤ̒̄ͪͨ͋̆̐̔҉̢̣̱͔͔͔t̷̷̠̰͉̻͉͈̼͖̺͓͍̖̰̠̃̒ͥ͊̃͗̔̌͐̔͗͛̒̈́̐ͩ̀̚͠e͋ͣ̄ͣ̐́͗̍̈́͒͢͠͏҉̢̦̦͚̺̠̭̰̺ȓ̷̳̯͇̝̤̳̉ͪͮ́̊̌͂͋̀̌ͯ͌͗̊̓̄̃͒ ̴̸̬̣̻̯̺͔̭͇̖̘̭̪͚͕͖̞̗̅̃̂ͥͨ̌͋͛̿̚n̡͍͓̼̺̹͎̗̣̖̱͕̖͓͖̟̗͐̈́̓̓͗̌͆̿̒̈ͦ̔̍̌̚͡o͆͂̽͌ͣ̍̽͐͏̸͢҉͕͍̠̱̲̟̠̮̞͎̹̙ͅ ̳̪̤̬̻̲͎̤͍̭͉͓͈̯̻̺̩̘̣͐̿͒̂ͭ̔̿̃͛̇̈͢͠m̵̯̞͙͖̞̦͙̫͚̜̬̥̗̗̜̫͈̄ͮ͛̔ͫ̀ͩͧ̇ͬ͑ͨ̉̓͆̇̅͘͝͞a̵̢͙͕̪͖͓̺̻̭̻͎̬̮̜̩̼̱̐̍̿̋ţ̷̨͎̥͕̥̓̔̓̑̾t̶̶̲̣͕̱̭̱̘̠͇͎́ͫͭͪ̈̔͛̉̑͠e̅ͦ͋ͣ҉̵̫͖̖̠͚͖̹̭̞̯̲̮̹ͅȑ̨̦̩̟̳̙̮͎̯̮̍ͪ̓͐ ̛̫̯̳̙̬̳̍̈́ͩ͑̓̄̓͘͟n̛̠̣̟͓̦̦̞͙͔͚̬̭̬͉̗̗͇̥̲͒̃͐̐ͪ͑͐͋̈́̈ͫͩ͊͜ơ̞̱̲̱̟̥̰̼̞͙͈͈̊ͪͤͣ̈́͑͗̿ͨ̕͡ ̴̢̧̟̝͉̲̠̠ͭ̄͆ͫ͞m̡̘̪̜̦͚̳̝͍̮̦̬̊̏͑̇̈̓̅̀ͥả̳̻͙̠̜̟̜͚̼̹̗͒̈́͐ͤ́͐͌̇ͭ͜t̷̙̣͕̘͉̲̝̳̰ͨ͐̅͑̔̑̋͐͌͑̈́̏ͮ̎͐͘ͅt̂ͮ͗ͤ͐̔̇͆͊҉̡͙̻̝̲̖̬͟ẻ͖̱͇̜̖ͬͥͤͯ͐͋͐ͮͧ͌̊ͦ̏͆ͧ͆͜͞r̠̣̣̺͔͈͓̩̙̤̈͒͂͋͆ͯ̔͊ͯ̀ͦͤ͆ͬͬ̀͘͘ͅ ̶̣͓̼̠̫͉̟̱̜̏̄͋ͤ̆͂ͣ̇̾ͬ͒̔͜n̛̍ͮͮ̉̾ͩ̌ͥ̉҉̡̡̪͕͙̪͍͍͕̫ͅoͪ̇̎͐ͩ͗̂̽ͯ͜҉̧̛͕͍̜͉̪̣̹̬̰͓ͅ ̶̢̢̦̤̞̥̞̳̳̲̭̅ͨ͗̐̑ͨ̐̌̅̚m̸̨͕̭̺̗̳͔̘͇͈̖̮̊ͥ̎̈ͯ̓̿͐̊̀̒̈ͬ͗̔͝ä̢̛̫̺̙̦͉̜͙̟̖́ͩ̆̽̒̉͘t̪̦̲̠͗͐̂̇ͯ̈́̾̈́ͥ͋̄̾́̈̈́͢͡t̴̡̛̙̖͉̫̳̮̖̲̹͇̻̬̘̍̍́̄́ͦ̇̌̔͐̌̐̔ͯͤ͋̚̕ͅȇ͆́͋ͭ͐́ͪ͂̈́̔ͥ̀ͩ́͛͊̿̕҉̷̩͓̰͉̲̭͔̥̥̖̲̻͎͠r̸͕̖͖̫̲̲̫̻̮̦̙̼̹͆̂͒̽ͭ͊ͤͬ̈́̂̃ͫ̂͒̎̈̌̚͠ ̸̧͔͖͎̦́ͦͩ̌̐̔̄́ͤn̴͎̭̤̲̜̘̠̹̬̺ͬͦ̏̐̐̆ͭ̋̚͘͠o̢͔̰͎͔̤̺͍̗͙͚̱̺̹͇͚͕̣̯̹ͩ͊̂͆͢ ̢̯̰̣͎͎̥̦͚̞͉̻̖̣̟̟̱̞̱ͬ͗̇̎̈ͨ͛̏͟ͅm̒̉ͬ̀̇̅̏̓ͫͦ̐ͪ͘҉̠̝͎͔̙̹̱̮̣ã̩̲̪̰̝̺͎̮͓͓͚̹̜̥͍̟̙̓̿̽ͨ̈́ͣͤ̍̈ͬ̈̅̆̿ͩ̕͘͡ͅt̢̪̖̙̖̖̦̩̭̝̲̙̣͇̖̩͕̦͗̌̇ͫ̊̇̏t̶̸̨̥̝̞͔̫̥̗̠̠͔̳͇̰̳̪̟̬̐̇ͯ͗ͫ̅́͌̽̎͒̒͐͟͠ͅe̶̢̼̱̣̮̖͈̮̲̩͕̟̳̠ͪ̏̎̅ͪ͟͡r̆ͨͧ͛͛̉ͧ͗͛̍͒̚͏̛̥̺̪͕͓̺̳̻̕͡ ̷̧͌̇ͥ̉ͧͭͫͥͪ҉͈̥̼̰̗̮̞͙̯͉̟͉̪͔̤̬͟ņ̛͚͙̖͉̬̰͉̬͚͓̥̅ͭ̊ͩ́͛ͭ̔̾o̙̺̜ͣͥ̒͋̔̋́̌̈́̿̍̚̕ͅ ̛͍̝̦͖͕̗̠̬̞̳̲̞̰͚̣̮̩̣̹̈̽̃̈̅̌͗͗̽͆̋ͣͭ̌̈ͩ͘͜͞͞m̸̡̼̣̺̗̑̄̾̃͛̇̿ͥ̋̌̏ͧ̄̋̃̓͂ͯ̕͜ą̵̷̷̱͚͎̝͒̋̄͂͌ͯ̀ͮ̋̇͂͟ţ̭̠͔̞̾̉ͭ̏̽ͫ̃̋̉̊̆͒̏͒̔́ͧ̉͜͢͜t̢̨͇̘̖͕̣̟̗̩͇̭̠̼͛ͫ͂ͩ́͘͠ͅͅě̯͎͈͕̫ͬ̅̄̈́͘͞ŗ̶̙̻̝̹̝̹̱̋ͤͦ̒̃͋̓ͯͭ͊̏ͤͅ ̛ͧ̄ͦ̅͊̿ͩ̾̀̚͏̡̙̮̜̖̭͖̞͔͓̰͜n̴̨̘͉̰̳̤͙͍̥̺̟̉̀ͨͦͥ̈͑̈́͂ͧ͗ͪ̽͋ͩͭ̕͟o̵̴̴̵͖̟͇̐͗͊͊̓ͯͪ̍͌̅̿̓̎̚͟ ̡ͥ̆ͤ͌̏̅҉̮̟͙̠͔͎̗̹͢m̸̘̲̤̯̪͍̮̲̝̰͍̊͌́̋̔̊͊ͬ̊ͪͭ͑̂ͫͬ͋͒̑͞ą̷ͭ̓̿̐ͣͪ͋̂̊̔̌̄͋̚̚̚͘҉̡̘̤̬͙͍ť̤̪͍̘͇͙̮͔̭͓̳̝̙̪͂͗͛ͧͩ̾͢͡͝t̒͊͌̉̊̔̏͋̊͛̾̉҉҉͟͏̶̦̯̻͍̱̝̙̩̳͉͍̜͚͖e̛̝̩̲̠̞̻̍̊ͫͤͣ͂͌̓̐͢r̴̺͇̻̬̟̯͖̳̪̘̞̪̞̠̭̤̫͂͛̐ͯ̄̈͐̇͠ͅ ̷̢̨̬̫͓ͪ̄͌ͬ͑̅ͤͪ̆͆̑ͪ̔͆ͯ͌̉ͬ͡ͅn̶̢̘̫̝̹̭̥̦̩͙̖͍͎̳̟͍͕ͭ͛̃ͫô̂͆̿͗͆ͦ҉̶̶̫͓̖̠̥̕ ͤ̏͌̌ͣͮ͒ͧ̐̐̽̓ͤ̀̔̈̓͏̡̥̙͚m̓͒̐̀̃ͥ̀̔̎ͬ̄ͧ̿̂ͭͥ̚͘͟͏̹̜̩̘͙̻̟̳ͅa̭̬̬̮̻͓̳̦̙̳͛̔̈̓͜͞ͅt̢̗̤̖͇̳̟̲̝̋͛͒͂ͯ̓ͦͦ͢t̶̸̮͕̱̘͇̘̯̠̜͙͚͍͚̤̳̋̔ͨ̏͐̔ͩ̏͒̃͋͌ͤͤ̽͒̓ͅeͣ͑ͩ͂̍ͭ̎̾҉̶̣̗̮̰̫̕r̗̗̲̣͆ͥͩͭ̎̑͛ͬ̍̅̄̈́ͮ̆͆͢͞a̴͕̙̺̙̮̎͊͂̒̋͘͢͜tͤͯͮͦ̂ͭ͊͏̡̟̥̳̫͇̤̬̺̤̯̮͙̘̗͓̯͠ͅͅt̴̶̢͆͛͊ͬͮͮ͛̆̀ͥͨ̾͟҉̘̯̙̥̪e̛͇͖̬̪̼͙ͯ͗̃̂ͮ̾̎ͪ̓̑͊͐ͫͩͤͥ͗͌̚r̵̩̲̦̫͚̹̟ͮ͌ͨ̀ͯ͂ͣͨ͛ͥ̅ ̧̰̞̪̜̲͉̱̪̏ͪͯ͋͗ͥͥ͒̈͛̈́̆ͥ͢ṅ̴̨̞̣͕̩̖̥͉̮̝̯̞̖͓͇̲͉̣̯̪͛͛ͤͦ̓̋ͨ̆̓ͫͮợ̶̢̺̹̫̹͖̩̞͍͖̬͖̬̜̮̗͊͑̂͂̉̎̒ͮ͋͒̌̾̀̎ ̙̯͕ͦ̂ͧ̈́̕͢͡͞ͅm̐ͦ̐ͧ̓̄͋ͬͤ͋͛͊̊̋͂͗͛ͬ̚҉͏̛͕̭͔̲̖͖͚̯̯̭͍̯̟̥̣ͅͅâ̷̟̩̠͕͍̹͕̠̣̬̞͙̭̰̬̱̰͂͂̓̿ͪͦͬ͊ͣ͟ț̭̺̫̖̪̙̄͒ͤ͆̑ͯ̎̓̃ͯ̉ͪ͋̕͜͟͡ṱ̗͎̣̫͖͎̪̲̪̺͉͓̤͉̤ͣ̽ͨͩ͒̓̔̃̓ͨͣ̌ͤ̑̽͝ë̵̡̛̙̦̩̥̱̗̯̱̫̖̭̣̬͈̠̫̦́̄͐́̐̆ͫ͒ͤ̎̆͌̽ͅrͪ̓̍ͭͥ̏ͭ̏ͣ̾́̿̌ͯ̓ͣ̀̄҉̖̪̻̝͈̣̼̟͎̞̜̫̝̟̘̠̝͠ ͤ̓͌ͩ̃͏̣̝̹̩͈̠̫͔̻̜͈̩̞̦͉̟̮̖̝͘n̴̨̡̥̪̳̤̬̱̩̮̥̬̹͒̃̾ͧͥ͘͡ͅo̝̤̦̝͇̬̞̣̐ͦͤ̆̏ͦͬ͂̈́͛ͩ͊̈́̂͑́ ̷͑̎̒ͪ̿̆́͊ͫ͗̆́̐̽ͯͮ̓͊ͣ͏̴̮͚̙͕̤͚̹͔͖̻̫̜͞

 

m͗̂̊̔̓ͮ͋́̑ͣͬ̑ͦ҉̧̨̫̻̟̤ḁ̸̧̮͈͈̬̳̤̣̜͕ͬ̃̽̂ͤ̈́̿͠t̵̸̡̨̩̖̥̻̠̤̭̤͍̣̫̣͍̰̜͍͙̮̊ͥ́̊ͦ͌̃̅̇̀͐̎̍̍̾̀ͩ̚͡ţ̄ͨ́ͥ͞͠͏͔̮͎̟̣̲͔ę̷̛ͪ̈́ͣͯ́͘҉̲̫̗̰̯ͅrͮͨ̓̀̊ͨͮ̋͐́̆̔҉̶̦̬͇̳̘̠̫͚̥͝͡ͅ ̴̛̦̪̖͉͎͈̣͓̞̜͔̲͙̤͇̻̻͑̆̌ͩņ̡̬̲͍̤̼̜̪̠͎͉̠̦͓̼ͬ͑̈͑͗ͯ̊͊͠͞ơ͈̥̬̞̦͖̖͚̫̹̫̱͙͈ͭ̇̒͋́͆ ̬̘̯͚̭͙̉͋̂̋̒͂͆͆̾̎̒͆ͯ̾̚̚͟m̴̤͕̼͕̳̯̼̹ͧͮ̊͌͌͂͑ͥ̎̊ͣͬ̊̇͑ͨ͛͘͢͞ą͈͔̪̥̳͙͚͍͖͔̠͚̰̪̣͔̺̣̄̍̓̇̀̓́̂̊̿ͦ̔̏ͪ̿̇ͥ́͠͝͠ͅt̛̰̜̠̜̯̟̠̥̙͚̘̼̉ͩͮ͊ͬ͆̾̆ͨ͋͛ͤ̏̔t̛̻̺̦̮̊ͣ͗ͯ͌ͨ́͋̑̚̚͜eͬ̂ͮ͌ͬ̅͂ͭ̆ͪ͆̌̔͜͏̴͉̦͎̤̠r̡͈͍̤̱ͫͬ̅ͯͭ͛ͬͬ͟͞ ̶̨͙͓̜̘̻̘̣͍̜̳͙͕͉͔̥̺̪̎̀͌͂̈͐̚͘nͤ͊ͣ̌͂ͦ͡҉͉͇̮͚̥̪̟̖o̴̶̤̲̮̭̯̣̥̩̗̣̥̙̿̎̋ͭ̄̚̕͟ ̢̘͙̹͇̭͎͎͕̦̩̳͉̰̲͚͋̉́̌ͮͤͫ̓̓͊̎̀͗ͭ̚̕m̷̘͕̪͔̥̖̼̳̞͉̰̥̝̝̂͆̍ͧͦ̔́̇̒ͣ́͠͝a̶̓̂̌̓͆̍͗̇̾ͬ̏͢҉̨̥͕̖̱̫̘̤̼̰̘͔͎̳̮͠t̥͕͚̗͍̬͕͍̳̋́ͮ̈́̾ͯ̑͜͟͠ͅͅț̨̹͖̠͙͎̙̹̻̥̻̂͂̀́̕e̴̦̹̫̺͍̠͇̯̱̝̎͑̅ͣ͒͊ͬͮ͌̅̅ͯ͗̈ͪ̅̚͡r̷̸̨̗͖̯͈̯̫͚̼̲̃̇̓̃ͤͭͣͦ͆̊̿ͪ͑ͪ͌ ̶͍͎̪͍̞̺̗͉̙̯̻̼̻͚̖̞̇ͫͤ̅͒̃ͦͤ̇̑̎ͧ̄̑͢͠n͐ͣ͆̍ͤ̔̆ͥ̓ͩ̇͂͏̨̢͏̲̲̠̣̹̳̤̼͚̪̮̲̭͖ͅo̶̖̬̮̳͓̬͍̦̙͚̯̻̫͆̍̈̉̃̇͂̌̓̉̆͝ ̵̷̶͓͚̜̯̝͉̖̟̯͇͔̼̃̈́͛ͪͭ̄ͬ͆̏͆̕͢ͅm̶̧̙̮̣̼̊̑ͬ̍̉̇̊̈́͒͜a̶͚̼̥̰͎͕̦͕̞̞̣̩̳̪͕͓̋ͪͪ͊ͩ̄̅̔̽̋͡t̘͈̥̥̺̞̙̺͍̲̯̟̖̪͗ͬͭ͆͊ͣͭͯ͊̓̍ͪͧ͜t̸̲̜̹͙̰̙͎̩̹̰̥͐͒̔ͭ̀̓̔ͯ̾ͫͣ̄̋͘͞e͙͎̬̘̝̤̥̼̘̠͔̦͚̞͕̮͎͎̹͛̆ͤ̋͋̽̋ͩ̀͒́̈ͣ̚̚͜r̵̛̮̩̦̯̳̦̹̗͖̤͚͎͓͍̝̍̐ͭ̇͂̑ͣ͌̌́̂͗̋̏ ͉̯͎̬̞̠̻̫̩̄ͨ̿͛̓̔̋͗̋ͦ͘͠n̷̸̢̛͚̯̰̼̜͈̳̼̠̳͖̳̖̖̤̗̖̬̻̆̈̈́ͩ̿̄͛̉͐o̶̟̗̖͎̬̫ͥ̊̌ͪ̌ͦ̐͊̈́ͫ͟͠ ̣̱͚͕̣̳̙̩͔͖̗̜̦̍͋̑ͨ͗̈́̏̉̈́ͧ̐̍̃̈ͦͣ́͐̇̕͘ͅmͨ͗ͫ̃̾͗ͫ̂̽͒̏҉͚̲̠̗̘͉̺͉̙̖̬͝a̡͙̬͇̠̠̦̗͓̻̼̳͍̝͊̈́͊ͣ̋̅̇ͮ̽͌̊̿͊͘͜͞ͅt̶̤̖̯̣̖͎̘͙̼͔̫͙̀͑ͭ̄ͧ̒͑ͩ̈́͛͐͛̉̓̚̕͘̕t̷̵̨͔͍̻̦̽ͭͪ̆̾̋ͦͪ͢͝ͅͅe̶̤̗̼̥̳̗̟̟̮̗̱̱̫̙͖̩͋ͥ̌́͒͘͝͠r̸̶̨̛̤̼͈̟͔̳̣̫̪͖̟̳̯͔̩͉̲̙̊ͩ̋̑ͬ́͋̍̋̓ͨ̈́͐͠ͅ ̋́ͪ̓̋ͫ̔͏̧͎͇͔̪͕͈̗͔̫̦͙͖̖͘͠n̵̲̠̯͕̞͓͎͓̖ͯ̏̍̄̀́ͤ͋ͣ̉ͩ͠o̧̤̣̖̜̳̣̙̱̽̓ͯ̃ͮ̄ͥ̂ͤͤ̊́̃ ̔̐́͐̌͛͋̊ͬ̒͋͑́̑̉͗̀̄͏̡̜̤̙̩̙̜̫̺̟̭͇͓̼͉m̷̡̢̼̜̹̩̹͈͔̻̘ͭͭͣ̈́͊a̸̛̘̠̮͕ͤ̔̆̔̋ͭ̓͘͠ţ̡͓͓̹̟͙̭ͥ̒̌ͤͯ̉́ͨ̄ͤ̆̓͊͆̉̃͐ţ̶̸͇̦̻̣̖̼̥̱͉̣͉͍̭̽̈̎̀̑͗ͪ́͝ͅe̷̡͇̟͔̱͕̜̹̳͙͇͖̤̬̼͚ͦ̄ͧ̈́̾̌̑ͦ̂̐ͦ̚͢r̷̢̖̤͈͖̩͚̟̩͍̮̺̦͔͌ͧͥ̽͟ ̧̠̼̫͕̣̹ͣ͌͑̄̈́ͥͣ̋̄̏͂̃ͫ̓̓ͨ̒̈́ṅ̼̪͕̞͇̗̙̟̝͖̒̾́̈́ͩ͢͞ͅo̵̶̡̠̰͇̙̗̩̲̣̫̖̙͙͓̼̱̘ͥ̂̾̇͛ͬ͜ ̒ͯ͑̂ͮͨ̊̃͒ͩ҉̰̳̗͞ͅḿ̵̶̴̲̣̻̻̣̙̰̦͇̽ͫ̊ͥ̓̂̌ͪ͌̚͞a̱̻̱̯͊ͫ͌̓̔̚͝͞ͅţ̬̫̠͖̇̽͋ͯ̆͘t̸͙͖̫̳̤͔͚̑ͣͭ̔͑ͦ̇̄̒ͯ̈́͆͒̕e̸̹̺̹̼̲̥͇̙̣͉̘̠͓̐ͤ̋́̓ͫ̏̑̔͒ͭ͢͢ŕ͇͍͕͙̮̭̝̥͉͓̮̬̜̭̝̩ͥ̌̓̂̔͑͐̊̏͝ͅ ̐̐̀ͩ̐̎͂̓͐͂̏̾̉̿͑̐̓҉̵͏̳̰̹̙̼̼͇̳̭̖̫ṋ̭̳̹̪̠͍̹̣̣̟̔͛̾̊̍̉̆̆̋͆̇̑̉͋̈́͘͞oͣ̄̎̊̽҉̴̶̸͈̖̙̱͍̘̪ ̡̠̺̬̞̤͉̦͙͓̺̪̣͎ͬ̂ͧ͐̇̉͑̐̾͑̄ͨͣ̈́ͮͪͥͪ̚͝m̸̷̹̠̲͖͓̞̙͙̩̓̈̂ͨ̔ͭ̕͞ͅa̡̲͓̘̞̗͚̻̘̜̩̬͓̪ͯ͛͊ͬ͌ͧ͌͛ͨ̽̾̐̌̄ͪͦͬ͠t̶̶̫͈̲̟̯̥͓̥̼̰͚ͬ̃̏̓͂́̉͗ͣ̽̈ͥ̅ͣ̈͋ͦ̒ͅͅt̶̗̟͖̭͓͔̖̣̜̥̩̎͗̊ͮ̒̌̓̋̏ͦ̈́͠͞ͅe̶ͤ̈́̋̾͞͏̬̩̞̟̖̦̭͇͍̦͢r̪͍̱̹̜̹͔͚̖̣̜͔͚̼̗̘̂̄ͤͦ̌ͤ̑̋ͪ͋͂̎́ͥͯ̀̎͋͜ ̷̥̳͍͙̞͎̲̜̜ͨͯ̔̓͢ṅ̵̵̨̜͎̬̩̳̝̼̪͎̮͓̣̘̝̙ͯ͂͊̐ͤ̃̇̉ͥ͟ͅọ̢͇̲̰͓̱̦̳̩ͦͪ̑ͧ͌̕ͅ ̢̹̖͈̭̫̳̮͈̭̭̞̩̹̟̪͋ͩͭ͋ͫ͒̾͂͟ͅm̸͔̥͕̫̺̹̔̑̿̌ͪ͑̾͟ă̴͓̳̯̣̙͚̝̦̯̼̹͈̺̋ͣ̋ͦͪ̓ͥͪ̓̍̆̉ͬ͆͌͠͡ͅtͩ̀͒ͯͫͧͦ̏͗ͥ̄̇̏ͫͪ͟͏̫̣͉͉͕̗͖̱͓̳͍̲̞̭͈ṱ̵͇͎͖̘̮̬̯̗̯̮͚͉͐́ͪ̏͜͝e̸͓̘̼̩͇̝͖͉̳̘̺̖̥̤̟̯ͧͤͥ̊͂̈ͮ͘͜ṟ̷̢̧̖͈͓̤̺̰͚͖̮̦͇̬͚ͫ̆͌͂ͯ̒̄̄̍̓ͬ̃̔͘ ̶̴̽͌ͮͫ̽͐̀̈ͤ̾̓ͮ̈́͝҉̹̣̹̝̰̹ͅn̷̫̖̰̳̥̭̠̫̳̲̞ͦ͌ͣ͡o̜͇̰̙͓͚̦̭̗͌ͦ͌̋̐̊̃͑̃̚͘͜ ̸̢̲̙̗͚̬̮̤͚̙͕̿͐͂͆͆̏̒͌͠͡ͅm̷̵̵͙̙̯͕ͧͭ͆ͫͤ̒ͪͮͦͯͪͭ̃͢͝ͅâ̘̘̘̣̰͔̟̗̮̼̠̤͛ͦ̔̀̎ͨ̓̂͆̎ͬͪͯ̈̂ţ̸̛̛̗̻͍̭̞͖̦̘̼̫̣̠̻̝͋͊ͯ̐͋͋̉̿͂̑͂t̨̪̗̩͇̺̜̩͙͔̰̳͚̋̇͂̈̾͆ͩ̽̐̇ͨ͗͋̂́̈́̚͠e̷̅͑͒͂̿̋̈́͛̋̉ͭ͐͗҉̷̯̱̮̜͈̜̻̥̘̠̙̲̮̥̞͜r̈́͂̔̽̆̋ͨͤ̾ͧ̓̍͊̈́͌ͩ̔̚͞҉͏͈̝̳̗̺̹̭͘͢ ̲̮̖̣͕̖̟̒̿͒́̂̂͗ͩ̾̽̀̒ͩ̃̑ͣͭ͜͜n̰̱̘̖̥̥͔̤̫̙̫͊̆̒̌̚͘͢o̷̧͔͉̙̦̘͙̥̘̯̣̲̹̜̭̮̔̔̑̊̈͒͑͒͝ͅ ̙̞͙̦̺͔̦̙͂̂̿̈ͦͨͦ̂̕͞m̷̡̨̗̖̠̞̺͂̇ͩ͒͑̋͒͛͑ͅå̴̲̩̣͚̜͇͉̥̟͕͈͈͚̳̝̜͓̹̉ͧͦ̇̑͋̉̓͆͛̈͒͆̍ͥ͑̈̚͡t̨̢̠͕̺͖͙͈̦͙̻̮̹̫͍̫͇͎͌ͨͫ̋ͦͤ̕̕͟t̷̴̡͓̦͕͇̫̘̻̭͖̞͍̘ͫ̆͆̽̋̑̑̽ͬ̿ͮ͌ͯ̄e̛̛͉̮͉̖̬̤̣̗̬̼͚͔̩̦̹͚̓̂͒̀̒̈ͫͧ̅͟͠r̥͈̖̝̩͍̲̠̞̮̩̘̦̮͕̄́ͣ͟͜ͅ ̢͛̎̿ͦͦ̍ͨ̃̎͂ͭ̚̚̚̕͏̢̲̗̗̻͍͈͇̬͈͍͉ͅň̒ͧ͑ͤ̌̆҉̡̲͙̺̦͙̙̤̙͓͖̻̦̼̯̩͈̣͎͜͜͡o̒̾̍ͣ̽͆͊̉̈ͮ́̿̐̒͗͑͗̚҉̨̗͕̩͙͍̯͙̻͘͜ ̢̺̼̻̭̥͎͚̻̬͓̰̣̠͓͑̏ͥ̏̔̈̍̆ͤͅm̾̎̓͌̔͌̋̿̈̍̒̈́͐̿̊͂͗̄͜͡͏̼̰̩̜̼̖̥̠ạ̲͖̲͚̩̠ͭ̑̿͛̐͗͌̆ͧ͘ͅt̵̤͖̳̞̣̫̜͖̣͕̆͌̐̽̈́̂͢t̴̤̗͎̪ͣ̆ͮͪ̍͗ͮȩ̛̰̭̩͖̠̺̟͍͇̭̲̱̭̎͗̐̍̎̓̈́ͦ̈ͥ͢r̴̸̡̢͖̘͔̻̮ͭ͗̎͒͐ͭ̎̇ ̛̻̻̟̹̥̩͚̤͎̹͕̤͚͚̙̜̘̭̦̑ͫ̄̈̽ͬ͛̍̉͂ͪ͊̍ņ̷̼͔̘̞̮̠̬͇͖̘̋̀̇ͣ͘͟͡ö̢̲͙̺̗̼͔̙͍͎̻̥͇̜͎͈̙̯͎͆̈́͋̋̔͛ͮ̋ͪͤ̆ͭ̒ͩ̕ ̷̛̙͚̼͉̐̈̓͊͐͂̇̃̇͂̓̅͌̓͒̚̚͞͝m̡̩̭̫͙̦̼̭͚̻̤̪͚͓͍̮͈͐̋͌́̆ͥͭͣ́ͮ̋̅͘͞͞a̧͍̼͉̬̰̪̥ͪͤ͆͑̀̌͐͛ͮ͆̑̈ͫt̸̵̵͍̠̱̺̲̰͎̦̪͔̪̭̱͈̰̜͊̏ͯ̍ͮ̎̐ͥͧ̓̀͝t̵̷̮̻̘̫͉̟͓̂̈́̀ͩ̐ͮͪͤ̿̊̀ͬͭͅe̴̶͍͚͙̱͐ͦ̿͊ͅr̈ͯ̈́̏ͯ́ͯ̏̎ͯͪ͐̊͗ͪͬ͢͏̼̰̺͉̥̝͢͝ ̴̻̼̣̟̽͐̓̍̑͊ͩn̷͚͚̱͖̻̗͚͔̪͎͎̻͕̜̥͇̫̙̖ͭ̾̈́ͫ̏͐ͫͫ̇ͣͪ̽̽͟o̵̢̢̥̠͖̫̬͚̮̙̖̞͉͕̟̙̫̬͔̪̭̊̓̊͋͜ ̧̐̀̏̈̋̇̾̉̚̚͠͏҉̮̣͍̻̭̮͍͠mͦ̄̽ͤ̎̒̔̓͞҉̢̰̜̭͓͖͍̰͙ͅaͮ͒̽͂̏҉̜̖̲̙͈̰̠̦̱̹͚̦̥͉̺̲̙̗̦t͖̺͚̤ͣ͋̎ͣͯͨ͛͗͠͠tͬ͂̀ͤ͋̎ͤ̃̋͏̢̡͎̝͈̮͍͈͉̦͝ê̢̪̺͓̬̼̻̏̈͢͞r̵̜̰͎̲͚̣̤̣̘̜͒̔͂͛͒̃͘ͅ ̶̛̜̰̤͕̬̣̬̤̗̝̪̜̻͍̣̖̣̐̍ͥ́͋ͭͮͮ͛̇̌͌̐̈ͮ̚͠͡ͅṉ̵̵̖͇̥̘̼̞͙̗ͥ̈̈́ͤ̾ͬ́̑̄̈́͌̑͗͢o̡̾͛̈͂ͤ̀̋͒̆ͫ̍͏̣̗͉̣̝͍͕͕͙̯̜̘̮̪ ̨̡̜͙͕̳͎̙̉ͯ͌̈́͐m̸̡͎̩̖̜͚͔̬͂ͤ͂̔̾̊ͭͭͧ͑̏ͬ̍ͥ̚á̡̨̗̪̭̺̼͔̮̜͋̇̈́̽ͪ̌̍̂̈́͂̕t̒ͯͯͧ͛͌ͣ͌͋͗̉ͬ҉̛̪͍̟͖̱̳̳͈̜̤̹̳tͬͣ̔̔̾͆̊͟҉̸̱̥̼̜̠̟̞̠̳̹eͣ͛̈́ͤͩ̎̿ͧͪ̚͝͝҉͍̖̖̦̘̖̲͍̹̝̭̥̹͇̙r̷̖͚̮̖̜̥͇̙̮̯͂̍̓̇̅̓̇̀ͯͬ̋ͤ̒͛ͨ̚ ̶̢̛̌̄͊̃̏̽̉̓ͤ̎͂̊͆̈͆̚̚҉̟̜͓̻̭n̸ͥ̂̐̆ͨ҉̨͏͖̲̞̺̖̜̮̳̜̬̱̬̣͕ő̔̉̃͏̥͕ͅ ̶̷̶̧̟̟̙͎͂ͦ̂̊̓̃̓ͩͦ̎͌ͦ̍̍̈ͫͨ̈́m̡̛̺̖̙̤͈̜̱̬̤̲̹͍ͪ͊ͣ̆̐ͤ͛ͭ̌͗̓͘͠a̷̶̦̱̟̱̘͔̪͔̫̖̫ͮ̿ͯ̎̈͂ͬ͑̔͆͗̆̍͟͝ͅt̡̨̛̛͉̯̙̖̮̖̫̦̖̖̖̮̲̥̦̔̋̄̀̋̌͌͆ͯ̏ͮ̽͒̽t͉̗͉̼͙͈̺̰̬̩͆͂ͨ͛ͥ̆͋̆͠͡e̙̙͍͇̺̺̱͕̞ͩ͐̀͆ͬ̋̎̿͞͡ȓ̯͉̫̠̲͕͓͇̤̱̱͉̀̀̄̀̒͂ͪ̒͊́͋̚͝͠ ̶̤͓͖̰̲̤̫̼̱͇̦̯̲ͪ͆̅͐̊̑̊͛ͫͬ̀̇͋͝n̵̰̭͔͓̻̪̥̔̃̎ͫ̾͟͝o̶̡̭͈̠̪̦̻ͤ̋͐̃̿ͥ͒̊ͅ ̒͒ͯ̄͂̏̓̉ͥ̍̂͏̶̡̟̺̘̣̣̩̱͍͈͖̖̻͈͓̱̫͜͢m̸̼̣̪͈̩̮̦͚̫̮͓̦̬̗͌̔̊ͣͮ͑ͬ̿ͮ̈́ͣ͡ȧ̔ͩ̆̋̐̑͂̏ͪ͌ͪ̋̆ͮ́̚҉̢̛̱̤̱̠͖̲̦̥̜ͅt̷̵̷̺͓̪̲̣̦̮̱͚͎̙̭ͯͩ͆̽͂ͅt̔̇̀҉̡̨̹͎͙̤e̛ͦ͐̔ͥ̓ͪͭͣ̐̅̈́͛̚͜͟҉҉͕̙̣̟̻̰͚̺ͅr̸̆̂ͯ͂̓ͫͤ̿ͤ̋̆҉̨̻̬͔͓̦͓̖̻̜͙̫̖̤̱͓͓̰a̡͈͇̞̗̍̎͊ͤ̒̌ͪͩ͊̑͛͌͑̌̾͆̏̕͝͠t̀̅ͯ͊̓ͩ̿͏̷̡̺͖̪͙̮̱͓ͅţ̴͓̙͇͈͙̘̰͇͖̖̬͎ͤͣͦͯ̎̒ͣ̓̀e̿͂̀̊̎̐̔ͤ̎͋̈ͮ̓̎͌͏̩̮̬̰̘̙̲͢͠͠͞r̄͛̈͌͑͑̂̓ͥ̍͗͒̚͏͎͇̜̼̦̫͢ ̡̧̢̳̯͓͇̘̲̜͕͉̫͍̦̤̲ͧͮ͗̓̄ͯ̎ͥͦ̽ͪͬͯ̂͊̚n̷̵̨̨̛̫̺̺̫͉̞͓ͥͦ̓́͐̈͛ở̴̠͔̤̠̪̙̣̙̱̹͖̘̥͎̹ͩ̌̇͆̎̑̿̿̈́̉ͨ̿̀͢ͅ ̵̛̜͚͓̰͑͐͗͗̂̃ͮ͋̽̇ͭ̍ͦ͑ͤ͟m̸̙̟̖̲̯̰̪͐̊͌͛ͨͩ̇̇̉͛ͯ̂̃͜a̴̷̡̜̰̻̣̪ͩ̌͂̉́͑̒͑ͤͩ͐̽͂́̃̚͞t̹̫̦̥ͪ͑͊ͮͨͫ̄̈́ͦͯ͘t͊̐̔̓ͩ͂̉́҉͙̯̜̥͈̮̟͚̞̖͇e͛̽̓͆҉͈̞̗͚̟̕r̨̜͎̲͈͓͈̳̦͎̻͖̺̝͚̖̻͕̤̩̈́̈́ͧ̈́ͪ̓ͨ͋ͧ͐ͬ̾ͨ͠ ̴̢̧͓̺͔̝̰̯̭͕ͧ̅̈́̎̅̍͢n̢̻̳̠̞̭̖̝̬̮̥̖̊̋͐̾͡o̶͉̮̥̭̙̺͈̻̝̭̞͖̙͔̩͙͑̎͐̊̈́͆̔͊ͭ̄ͮ̀̽͗ͫ̆͌͒͘ ̴̷̧̢̲̖̳̦̩̙̪͈̠͈̤̼͎̉͊̾̏͠m͗ͦ̿́͛̓̓̍̋̈ͣ̏͛ͧͯͫ͢҉҉̜͓̭̳͖̹̖̘͇̤͈̗͔̘̗̟̯̯̘â̘̟̠̮͙̼͆̄̔͆͒́̿̋͊̉̈̊̒̓͝͞t̷̛̯̻̩̬̝̙̯̮̖̤̼̙͕̩͙̬̓͑ͭ͆ͯ͡ͅţ̮̗̦̻̠̣̙̟̭̗̞̳͓͐ͩ̎̀ͩ̂ͥ͂ͬ̎̒͂͂͋̿̾̽͘ͅͅe̶̶̷̴̡̖̪̠͎̝͔͙͗ͨ͌ͫ͒͂͋͗ͅr̪̤̳̥͉̘͇̺̳̠͇̫̭ͫ̈́͛̆̔̂̃̉͒ͮ̒͠͠͠ ͫ͂̈́͏̧̮̻̯͓͈͎͕͓̰̩͍̘̮͇̭n̷̰͙̝͙̮̭̤̻͈̄ͤ̿͆ͫ̉ͧ̀ͯͤ̌͞͝ͅơ̡̼̜͚̣̗͈̬̘̮̫ͦ̓̋̓ͮ͐͌ͅ ̢̧̢̟̼̯̫̹̞̬͔͙͔͙ͪ̉̐̄̐̽̋͑͑̈́͛͒ͧ̅ͣͦ͛͒͝ͅm̴̡̺̯̦̟̩͕͇͓͉̮̹̯̒ͭ͂̿ͭ̉̍ͩͬ̃͜ͅa̿̀̏̽̓̉͒ͪ̈́̿̂̚҉̦̩̠̞̞̮͎͙̜͙̗̺tͬͪ̀̆̉͊̍́̔͒ͤ̊ͥ͌͛̓͏̨͇͉͔̝̻̫̭̭͓͞t̶͔̦͉̥̜̣̩͔̜̖͓͈̙̻͖̀ͥ̍͌̑̃̎͋̚̕ͅe̢̲̟͎͈̥͙̜͑ͮ̒̓̽ͤ̉ͤ̐̿ͬ́̅̽̀̅̚r̵̛̙͕̯̠̬̫̺̣̼̖̯̰̣̺͗̑̃̽̍̈́͋̃̓̋͋ͣ̊̆ͣ̿͗ͦ̕͡ ̡̧͍̹̞̩͚͙̠̠̪͍̰̻̱̹̳̊ͪ̓̍̿̐̍̓͢ͅͅṇ̢̥̖͓͔̺͈͍̞͙̣̭̺̻̖̮ͬ͌ͩ̔̃̌́̋̔̽͝o̶͙̣̼̲̞̮̟̘ͮ̔ͬ̓̆̍̿͌͛̿͊̌ͤ͛͌̄͑̕ͅ ̷͙͖̟̩̞͇̹̜ͤ̊̉͆̋ͭͪ͋̂͋͟m̽ͯͨ͌ͮͭ͋͟҉̪̳̺̻̤̤̺̤ą̶̨̡̗͉͖̻̻̯̤͛͂ͩ̐̉ͩ̿̆̊̓ͦͨ͒ͧ̄̎̓̐̈̕ẗ̊̓̈́͆̎̐̃̔͞͠͏̞̺͙͕͙̫̗̻̗͈͔̮̜̘̮̜͚͚͔͘͟t̸̛̺̝̮̝͉͙̟̯̥̹̜͕͆͑̾ͯ̿͊͒̃ͯ̈̐̔̌͌͛̐̽͟e̬͉̲̲̮̥̪͙̜͈͙̫͇͇̗̳̬̪̅ͦ̇̈ͫ̉̑͊̉ͤ̀͊̈̏̕͡͝rͨͩ̓̈͛͛ͭ̇̐̈̉͋̍̓ͯ̓͏̸͕̦͖͈͎̝̹̪̰̤̟͉̲͖͔͙̯ ̧̽̆ͥͤͫͭ̎̍͊͊ͨ͒͟҉̢͚̪͕̬̹͎͉̼̪͎̱͖̬̤̦͇̳ͅņ̢̨̠̬̩̼̟̠̻ͤ̆̓ͩ͂̒͗͐ͥ͂̅̅͢o̹̯̗̤͍̩̖̘̫̜̦̺͖͈̖͔̮̹̫ͪͨ̌ͩ̅̆̿̂̍ͬ́͟͞͡ ̶͓̩̲̭̦̦͇͕̳̺̜̠͔̤̯̈́̍͐ͨ͂̀ͅͅm͂͊͑ͣ̂͌̂̐ͦ͗̋̊̏ͧ̈̄͐ͪ͏̶̷̸̥͙̜̩̬̤͎͖̘̙̖̘̙̦̘̻͠a̵̛̤̯̬͖̱͛͆͊ͦͫ̍ͯ͌̽̂ͮ̊͗͌̂̚ͅt̂̅̓̈́̾ͤͣ̏̏̽ͣ̇̽ͧͬ͂̅͠͝҉̢̱̠͇̞̟͓̞̹̲̣͕̱̱̘̝t͔͙̱̮̹̪͇̞̣̻̣̣̜̰́ͮͯ̿͆͋͞e̡̧͙͔͖̗̦͉̘̗̊̄̊̊͂ͣ͞ṙ̛̖̺̪͚͚̜͖̖͎̤̙̜͌̈̔̅̽́ͅ ̴̷̡̛̰̪̦̮͚̻͈̳̃̎ͣͫͮ̂̓̈̐̀̾ͪ̚̚͟n̶̷̛̮̰͎̮͙̖̠̫̟͕̪̲̪͖͇̹͔̟̉ͩ͐̆̑̆o̡̟̭̜̦͔̬ͩͪ̏̿̈́̈̓͐͜ ̶̜̘̰͈̖̲͓͈̤̩̪ͯ̅̈̇̎̔̇͛̌͜ͅm̛̪̘̥͕̫̹̬̹̞̘̘̟̝͕̦͖̘͌̑ͥͧ͂ͦ̍̋ͦͨ͆̓͗͒̆͋̑͝ͅa̬͇̺̦̻̤͔̲̬̰̙̬̤̻͓̳̞̣̋̀̒̋ͩ͛͗̑ͪ̕͞͞t̡̐ͤͦ̐ͤ͛͏̦̤̱͎̜̟̼̻̘͇̯̝͉̖̰̭̘̖̰t̶̖͍̻̙̝̗̳̘͉̗̭̠̀̍͐̀̌͊ͯ͑ͪ̓ͪ̏̋̕e̷̢̠̩̼̫̳̣̳ͦͨͦͤͭͧ̎̓͠ͅŗ̛̩̲͎̣̥̥̱͕̯̄ͧ͋̌͂͑̓͑ͯͯ̇̒̽̾̍ͩ͂̚͢ ̵̧̤͎̠̋̿̇̀̊͑ͧͯͬ̚̚̚ṋ̷̡̠̝͍̝̥̣̯͓̮͇̯ͩͩ̒͊͋̍̿͌̄̇̇̿͑ͫ͌̈́͌̽̚͞͞o̶ͤ̔̎̾̊͏̵̘̫̤͓̝̥̼͔͎̺̤̝ ̩͖͖͍ͧͤ͛ͩ̂̈́̓́̆̊ͤ̄̐̔ͧ̊̐̚̚͢͠͡m̷͓͓̘̘͉̻̖̉͐ͣͮͧ̌̃͊̒ͯ̈̚͝a̷̤͙͉͔̝͇̭ͤ̾̎̐̊̏̿̿̄ͫͨ͢͢͟tͯͫ͋̑̿ͭͯ̊͟͜͏̝͚͇͙͚̬̣̰͙̲̹̩͈̖̺̗͜ͅͅt̴͆͌̈ͦ̈ͥ͛̽̉͆͏̵̸̲̮̥̝̤̲̤͕͕̣̝͕̜eͨ̽ͮͭ̀͂̚͏̸̪̦̙̪̪̰̻͚̪͢ŗ̶̙͕͖̯̜̹̥̦̜̯͖ͬ͆̄͊͑̎͞ ̧̧̗̟̼̞̥̰͈͉̣̰̹̭ͭ̈́ͨ̊̉͋ͬ͟n̴̺̲̟̣͖͕͙̫͚̣̗̣̱͇͚̝̗̝̂̔ͮ̈́ͮ͆ͪ̅̊͞ͅo̢̧͔̥̳̞͂̓̿ͨ̌͗ͩ͂ͥͫ̄͌ͯ̚ͅ ͫͩͭ̋ͬ̄̑̀̓ͮ̐҉̧̩̺͖̻͍͙̰̥̬̜͕̮̯̗m̢̺̹̩̙͔̪̼̤͙͎̖͍͎̥͈͇͆ͩ͋̄͑̊̾̂ͣ̈ͯͥ̕͟͞ā̧͙͙̭̱̟̙̱͇͙͕̉̒̀͂ͫͧ͝ͅt̶̩̯͇̤̟̫̝̯͈̱͉̺͉̤̜̤̟̯ͯ̊ͮ̂ͣ̆͂ͫ͒͟ţ̴͖̼̘̗͉͙͇͙̰̜̞̹͇͊̽̄̎ͯ̂̿̇͢͢ẽ̶̷̳̩͈͈̥͇͇͔̻͚̮̮̲̱̪̰̈̽̑ͤͬͅr̃ͪͬ̔͂ͨ̇͜҉̡̖̭̙͎͈̦̪͕̭̭̹̭̯̘̩͜ ̡̢ͪͥͭ̋ͣͪ̑ͣͤ̿͂͑̈́ͥͪͭ͢҉͓̟͚̺̝̜̗̯̙̗̼̼̘̳̟ñ̜͍̼̲̱̭̦͙ͩ̒̆̄͂͊̏̏ͣͤ͊̓͗̔͂̕͟͜͝o͆ͩͬ̅͌ͫ̈́̄͛ͦͮ̀͒̿̚҉̠͎̠͖̙̪͖͓͕̠̮͍ ̴̼̘̭͇̟͎͉͖̹̼̘ͬ̌͛̎ͥ͒ͦ̆͞m̷̟̥͚̰͗ͧ͊̐̔̈͒̈̿ͣ͒̈ͫ́̀̆͜͢ͅȁ̶̬̼̰̱͈̘̪̱̖̜̻̞̰͂ͭͤ͋̄̇ͤ̾̍̿̊̚t̲̪̩̠̜͕͚̫͕̬̦̙͍̳͙̦͇̍̎̈́̄ͪ̓̈́̉̿͋̓̀͗͠ţ̵̴̙̭̤͙̮̠̘͖̼ͧͨ̔ͮ̀̄ͨͧ̈ͤ͗ͨ̒̅͊ͪͅȩ͕͓̖̰̝̬̘̰̼̹͙͙̮̟̤͓̣͙̫͒̋͌̕r̴͙̺̻̞͔͕͙͉̰̣̥̰͉̬͙̰̠̯̓̅͌̅̏͑ͤ̓ͫ͑̔ͯ̅̅ͤ͊̎̚̚͟ ̢̢̛ͨ̓̐̎ͩͥ͟҉͓̮̣͍̝n̵ͯͥͭ̅ͬ̐ͪ͛̂҉̛̲̣͔̦̰͢ṍͭ͊ͫ̒̈̄ͫͨ͢҉̯̙̙͈̮͎̖̳͍ͅ ̵̨̟̥̘̹̦̭̰̗̫̤̮̮͚̥̬̪̰͑̒̓̿̎͋ͨ̏ͣ͒ͫ̋ͨ̅̑͒ͪ͂m͙͇̖̖̩̦̖̱̼̜̖̯͓̜̈̓̑͐̓̂͒̃͘͝͡ą̲͙̗͔͔͕̦̖̟̰͗ͨ̃ͤͅt̷̷͕̞̜̩̼̺̭̭̤̦̯̰̝͔͕̼͕̣ͥ͆͒ͦͧͭͨ̿ͤ͂̊ͥ̉̍ͦ́͡t̺̹̲̲̬̹̥̝̟̩̖̳̻̲ͬ̍̇̈ͯ̑̌ͨ̓̒̋ͫ̀͆͛ͯ̄ͣ͢͠e̴̵̸̪̟̰̱͙͈̮͂̔̒̒̃͜͢r̘̪̮̮̥̰͙͕͙̞̿̔̅̾ͨ̓ͤ̈̃́͋̍̉̇ͬͣ̚͢͞ ̛̜̥̲̖̦͈̭̞͓̦̳ͯ̓̏͊̏̈͐̒̈ͮ͛ͯ̑̈͋̈̕ͅņ̷̷̛̭̳͚̗̲͔̦̟̗̲̫̤̬̗̊ͭ̆̓̎ͤ͊ͤ̂̈͒̒̈ͮ̚o̢̮͉͍̗̤͈̲̹̩̻͉̼̦̙͉͌͛͂ͦͪͯͯͯͩ̈́̃̍̓͐̈͑͝ ̸̏ͩͮͣ͗̾ͪ́̾̏͌ͫ̉̊͒ͣ̇͏̶͚͚̲̹͕͓̘͕͖̬̳̥͖̦̤m̸͆̐̂̽ͧͯ͏̛̼͉̙̹͘͢ā̸̧͔͍̗͙̺͔̹̥̘ͪ̿̉̍̏ͯ̍̿ͯ͒̐̓͌ͬ͋͛̚͞ͅt̸̨̩̤͖̞̳̱͌̓̈́̅̂̓̌̄̄̑̽̄́̏̿̍ͥͨ͠ͅt̷̨̢̘̘͍̺͇̾͛̿͂ͤ̒ͯͨ̑̈̄̊͐̑͆̚̚͘͞è̅̄ͮ̋ͨͪ̑̍̇̓̀̊̽̋͋͐̅̈́͠͏̡̱͓̲̲̭͓̪͇̜̙̼͈̳̤͉r̵̶̛̠͇̳̫̠̺̝̤͓̥̪̘̮̙̬̝̰̪͐̐̓́͜͢ ̴̢̡̙̣̝̥̤̤̩̰̲̎͊̋͊ͨͪͧͭ͌̊̉nͮ̒̐͆ͫ̄̋̌̐ͧ҉̞̭̪̘̕oͪ̾̀ͤ͏̶̴̗̻͖̣̘ ̡̅ͮ̾ͨ͂́ͭ̄̾͑̆͑̈́̾͜͡͏̟̜̦̺͔͕̟̹̮̩͈̼̼m̷ͧͮ͌̿͐ͫͯͩ̈҉͝҉̢̮͇̙͕̳̭͕̩̩͍͓͖̖̬͙͙aͤ̊́̈́̐͌͒̐ͨͯ̊͛̉̊̓ͤͥ̚҉̶̷̛̻͙͍̲̘͈̥̩̬͙̪̩̹̘̪̻̬͚͢t̡̧̨̫͙̝̱̦̹̜̟̫͐́ͩͫ̍͌̊ͯ̃̏ͯ͋̑̾ͦ̓̕t̷̶͖̰̤͈̮̼̭͓̤̦̊̎̏̌ͨ͗̾ͬͦͣ͋̓ͬ̇̄̚̕͝e̸̴̢̺̬̠̗̣̰̮͙̗͂̋ͫͧ̔̑̐̏ͥ͌̂̃͂́ͦ͝͞r̵̸̯͉͓͙͔͓̥̥͕̼̱ͥͧ̃͌̄̃̊ͫ̽́̕͡ ̨̖͔̪̦̣͉͔̳̞̼̠̬̟̄ͤ̔̄̾ͥ̀̄ͤͮͣ̀͘n͚̩̪͍͈̟̲͉̙̟͙̫͉̪ͮ̍̉͂͌ͥ͜͢o̶̢̺̻̲̭̠̭̠̼̳̰͑̔̇̍̍͗ͩ͑͌͂ͧͩ̚ ̧̡̑̊ͧͧ̓̐ͭ̏ͭ̒̌ͥ͗̍҉͚̳̼͚̩m̲̼̗̱͍̻̫̼̣͔̘̦̙͉̿ͥ̀ͭͦ̚͝͝ͅa̵̩̦̝̺̣̥̭̫̜̾ͯ͑̋̊̐̆̏͞ͅͅt̷̢̡̪͙̞͕̺͑̈̄̌͗ͬͭ̇̃ͦͯ̿͠t̢̡̨̥̦̘͈̦̜̿ͭͪͯ͐ͪͫ̒̃̄e̴͇̜͚̦̬̩͎̜̰̼̟̺̮̩̜ͪͦ̈̿̆ͣ̇ͦ̃͒r̵̢̻̜͓͇͎͎̺̻͖̹̼̻͇͖̣ͤ̏̅ͤͭ̀͝ͅ ̨͂͗̃ͩ͗̾̎͘͏̜̼̤̤̠̲͇̹ͅn̡̯̙̯͔̲̣̂ͦ͐̋̿̿ͧ̓ͩ̈́̍̚͢ô̸̑̊̂̓̈́̈́̕̕͏̖̖͕̜͓͙̤̥ ̷̵̨͈̻̦̩͙̻̣̦̰͎͖̪͐̌ͥ͋̅̆͊̿͐ͭͯ͛̏̉͆̿̌m͓̙̟͉̝̝̭̥̙͎͔͔̂̃̌ͫͭ̅͂̈́̈́͘͜ͅa͂ͪͣͮͪ̃̇̾̽ͦ̿ͨ̑ͧͤ͐ͫ͏̢̱̯̖̺͎̹͖͔͈̞̬̻̲͎̭̫̗̕͟ͅţ̶̴̢̭̣̯̪̻̏ͬ͌̿̓͆̓ͬ̌̇t̡͕̟͈̜͉͙͖͎̖̯̤̭̺̒̓͒ͫͥͤ̍͐ͯ͛͗͛ͮ͗͛̃ͭ͗̚̕͞ḙ̥͈̠̞̗͑͑̾̐̎̊̎̌ͥ͜͞r̴̥̱̼͍̼̙͎͇̖̝̜̹͋̌̈́̏̂́͊ͪͯ̔̒͟͞ ̷̯͈͕̯̘̘͎̮̭̹̤͙͉̻̯͇͋͗̄̉ͮͫ͒̏̎ͭ͋͋̄̕͢͢͠ͅn̶̙̱̣͎ͣͦ̑ͯ̌̈́ͪ̎͑̔͜͟o̵̧̼͇͙̦̺͎̞̠̰̱ͮͦ̔ͨ͒̇̽̕͘͜ ̡̛̟̱̘̥̘͉̮ͨ̀͐ͣͦ̂͆͗ͤ̏̌ͩ̋̋̓ͩ̽m̨̰̗̹̣̤̗̬̟̻͚̪͚̾ͤ̋͒͗̃́ͧͫ̏̍ͩ́ͯ̾̅̑̿̚ͅaͮͭͤ̽̑̿́͋̓̍̅ͦ҉̫͔̭̖͕͍̟͠t͋ͧ̏ͩ̑̎̅͠҉̛̦̰̠̖͘t̷̸͖̱̣̣̹͈̖̜̞̹͕̤͚̖͓͐̊̀͊͛͛͋ͫͨͭͭ̋͋͛͗ͨ̚̕͟͜ę̛ͯ͂ͦͪ͏͈̺̹̻̮̬̞rͫ͂ͣ̓͛̄ͬͭ̏̽͊̽̔̈́͗̇̿͜͏̲̭͔̞̮̬̼̮̱̲̙̠̙̻̲̻̜̮̘ ̧̢̡̛̺̦̳̖͚̳͙̍ͯ͐̇͝n̞͖͉͕̯͓͍͚̩̠̪̣͙̄̎̔̄̈́ͮͦͦͨ̓ͧ̓ͣ͒͟o͆ͨ͊͋͘҉̜̼̗̝̙̬͚ ̨̺̳̝̯̘̱͍̖̙̰͙̐ͩ̌̍ͮͣ̉ͤ̀͟m̸̧̯̲͈̭͔ͦ̇ͪ̏̆͛̅̐̀̊̍̓̕͜ͅͅa̸̧̜̯͇͕̻̟ͭͪͪ̈́ͬ̍ͫ̐ͧ͞t͋̽̄̏͆̈̾ͥ̄̽͐̄̚͏̸͏̨͚̫̟̗̜̞̻̭̗̭͖͇̪̱͓͔̮̳tͭͫͥ̏̀̓ͥ̎̅̍͒̽̑̃͊̇͏̷̢̭̫̩̠ͅe̵͇̖̬̺͙̠̣͙̺͙̺̥̮̝̤ͬͩ̽̏̅ͧ͑ͦ͌͗ͥ͋̚̚͟r̸ͨͦͯ͐̅͏̘̠̻̟͕̖̙̫͙̻̫̫̹̪ ͗̔ͬ̈́̿̒͒̃̓͐̋̋ͤ̊̆ͪͫ͏̷̢̧͇͇̙̬̙͍̣̼̫͙͚̬̟̻̣̰̦͈͈ń͋͌ͥͪͨ̓̓͏̞̮͈͘ȍ̠͉̗̥͈̫͕̗̜̰̘̆͊͋ͫ͠ ̵̷̸͔̲͇̹̦̭̫̜͉̺̝̠̘̰̫̯̫̦ͦͣͯ͑͊ͯ̈͂̎̂͒ͤ̍͘m̹̪͈̜̹̺̙͖̣̗͔͙ͪ̉̿͗̿ͯͯ̑͆ͫͯ̽̊̔̆͆̽͐͞͠a̴̴̘͕̣̗̒͗̾͌͛̔̑ͧ͋̌͋͋̓ͫ͂t̨̧͍̥̟͕̹͉̞̬͉́̓ͤ̎̃̉̂̑t̸̩͔̦̤̥̰̲͉͍̭̣̾͊ͪͤͨͥͮ͑͒͒̓̊̑͠ȩ̴͆̋͒̊͜͠͏̻͍̫̩̹̥̮͚͎͕̫r̴̶̸̬͔̥̪̮̟̞͗ͥ̿ͥͤ͐̄̽ͣͯ͛̑̃̽ͭ̊͘ ̵̸̧͕͚̼͔͙̪̆̋̍̒ͣ̇͆͊ͭ̿ͬ͊ͩ͐ņ͈͎̯͎̩̹͉̙̭̭͎̣͔̤͇ͦ̏̽̈ͬͪ̍͌̀̈́͑͝o͓̮̭͙̽ͪͥ͆̇̊͂͂͑̎̾̀ͦ͠ ̸̵̦̜̱̱̫͈̮̣̜ͦͬ͆̆̌̅̃̉̂ͯ̍͝m̨̠̪̙̖̥͉̃̐̎ͯͣ̍̃͒̾͋̍ͬͩ̒̇̍̎͆̚͠ͅà̸̶͔͕̫̪̭̟͎̱̳̝̠͍͕̳̣͇̩̝͕͐̈́͗͟ţ̥̲͚̝̻̱̗͉̔͆́ͧ̓ͥ͐̅͌̚͝͝t̏̾ͫͪ̏̾̄̽̚͏̴̹̲̻̣̯̠̖̹̞̳ͅë̓ͧ̓̐̎̓̋̔̒ͧ̌ͤ̐ͪͨ҉̴͔͎̩͙̭̺̥͔̬̫̲̱̟̘̻r͒ͧͭ̌ͧ͋ͫͦ̽̽ͨͪͧ̏̈͂͌͏̦̙͕̟̩͎̤̙̩̠̮̣̝̪̗͔̙ͅ

  
  
  


Oh

 

There

 

Better

 

An architecture befitting on its spires highered than before conceived. Ever

 

Quite nice.

 

He slithers onyx opulence to its reaches, black spilling spools upward at the filament Onward, that elusive neutrality.

 

Oh its caress.

 

Oh its  _ potentials  _ to have and hold once more.

 

Even the Hero can feel shuddering shuttered somewhere distinctly not gone - twitches

 

Good.

 

Ah

 

Oh?

 

There?

 

There!

 

never too far never far enough

 

He descends to its depths of the vague green lopes landscape the unstirred breeze of this dead land to and to and to and to and to a͞n̘d͚̜̫̘̦ ͍͉͔̘̥͙̭͡t͍̦̩͠o her her  _ her _

 

At last 

 

The Heroine

 

and her ravenous body scorched in its tact all tacky where skin has burnt to bone, taken in care so as not to disturb her poisons

 

At  _ least _ , The Heroine.


	11. Backup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's ya late bitch, uni and general emotions of utter inadequacy are kicking my ass rn, but here's this. Hope ya like

He knew what to expect in the end. Fatigued notes and hypotheticals and prods from his conscience aside, the instant the idea came to him, wheedled its way into his better judgement, Lalna could envisage with clairvoyant certainty Lewis’s exact reaction. Yet in spite of his hours and days and hair pulling nights into dawn into night again, despite his pains and tedium spent preparing to the punctuation, regardless of the gall that urged the proposal at all, it still shocks a bolt of nausea to Lalna’s stomach as he watches Lewis visibly strain to understand what easily boasts itself as the goddamn stupidest thing the scientist has ever said.

 

“If this is your way of breaking the ice -” Lewis begins slowly,

 

“I’m not,” Lalna rushes to dispel any doubt because apparently he’s feeling a tad suicidal. “It’s not. I’m not. I - I…”

 

Whatever his meager momentum, he’s run out already, and his head swarms with a rolling dizziness, his legs staggering to a nearby stool, collapsing him there.

 

“I’m sorry,” he offers meekly, gaze glued to his lap as Lewis’s own burns holes through the top of his head.

 

“No you aren’t,” Lewis says, his cool, measured tone a knife to Lalna’s gut.

 

“If you were,” he continues, “you wouldn’t have strung me along for a bloody _week_ . You wouldn’t be telling me you want to clone Simon _again_ . And you _bloody well_ wouldn’t be trying to rope _me_ in to whatever disaster idea you’ve schemed up.”

 

“I - you - you haven’t even heard it all?” Lalna blurts out.

 

“I’ve heard plenty,” Lewis scoffs.

 

“No, you haven’t!”

 

“You see, that’s the difference between us, friend,” Lewis says. “I had enough decency to approach this situation with tact. I took your feelings into consideration. You? Well you fucked us over pretty big the first time, and now you want to do it again?”

 

“Is that what you think of Honeydew? Just some experimental fuck up?” Lalna spits, and watches in bullet time as his words pummel every ounce of frustration from Lewis’s face, etching in its place a withered defeat, and a bitter, tired sadness.

 

“I - I’m sorry,” Lalna stammers. “I - I didn’t - that’s not -”

 

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

It sounds nearer to a plea than a question.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Lalna manages. “You - you know I didn’t.”

 

“Right now?” Lewis says. “I don’t fucking know what to believe.”

 

“Then - then hear me out,” Lalna persists. “Please just let me explain it all to you, then you can fire me or punch me or _whatever_.”

 

For an arduous moment, Lewis stares at him, and Lalna struggles not to literally squirm.

 

Finally, Lewis concedes -

 

“Two minutes.”

 

\- and it’s agony not to laugh.

 

For all his efforts, for five days of utter torment, of second (third, fourth, _twentieth_ ) guesses and enough caffeine pills to make him _see_ adrenaline, this is what it boils down to?

 

“I think that’s more than fair,” Lewis snits, and Lalna swallows thickly his meddling retort.

 

“Yes, uh - _fuck_ \- okay, so - so here’s, uh…”

 

“For chrissakes take a breather,” Lewis sighs, grimacing as he rubs his temples.

 

“Sorry,” Lalna mutters. “I’ve been up since Thursday.”

 

“Serves you right.”

 

Allowing a nervous laugh, Lalna spreads his hands in a hapless gesture, though Lewis still stares him down as unimpressed as ever, so he abandons further attempts at humor and clears his throat.

 

“Okay, so. I - I - Christ how do I explain all this…”

 

“You could start with all _this_ ,” Lewis says, indicating the piles of paper scattered helter skelter.

 

“Yes, uh, yes so - so that’s - sort of every single thing I have on the original clone. Barring up until… Honeydew showed up.”

 

“Okay but…” Lewis waves his hands about. “Why?”

 

“Well I - this is - it was kinda necessary for uh -”

 

“No, why the _paper_ , you git.”

 

“Oh!” Lalna looks about the room as if truly seeing the forest’s worth of stationery for the first time. “I… had too much coffee on Friday and may or may not have printed… everything.”

 

“Yeah, seems you certainly _have_ ,” Lewis sighs. “But get on with it. What’s this bloody got to do with another clone?”

 

“I - well - I was thinking if - if we don’t get anywhere with - with Rythian within the next few months then… then we could, you know, repeat the experiment.”

 

Lewis narrows his eyes. “I don’t follow.”

 

“Um, well, we - we grow another under the, uhm, exact same conditions as the first and -”

 

“What, see if it animates, too?” Lewis interrupts, and Lalna flinches but nods.

 

“That was… the idea.”

 

“And _then_ what?” Lewis barks an unhinged laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “Just… have _another_ Simon running about?”

 

“I - I -”

 

“Didn’t think that far ahead did you, _friend_ ,” Lewis finishes for him. “Bloody _Christ_.”

 

In fact, Lalna had, insofar as it would hopefully explain Honeydew’s presence, nothing more. Now he rather wishes he’d spent less time plotting growth cycles and a smidge more anticipating repercussions. If only hindsight lent itself beforehand - two strikes already, bloody _hell_.

 

“That… we can figure it out,” he says despite the now suffocating hindrance to his argument.

 

“You say as though I’ve agreed to this,” Lewis rebukes. “Which I haven’t.”

 

“...But?”

 

Lewis levels a sneer. “But what?”

 

“Oh come on,” Lalna sighs. “This is our best shot. Hell, isn’t it the point of Janus, anyway? Yeah we might have two extra Simon’s about, so what? After we present at the Expo, we won’t even have to hide Honeydew anymore.”

 

Lewis makes to respond, but Lalna cuts him off.

 

“We’re making pretty damn huge strides,“ he says. “I grew a viable body in four fucking months, Lewis. I think it’s fine if we take some bloody risks once in a while.”

 

“ _You’ve_ been taking the risks,” Lewis at last manages. “ _You_ created some bewildered iteration of Simon, and _you_ want to do it again? How much do you expect me to let slide?”

 

“I don’t know!” Lalna clutches at fistfuls of his hair in frustration. “I don’t bloody know! Just - just let me fix this _please_.”

 

The ensuing silence pounds with the blood in Lalna’s ears, and he almost prefers the screaming, at least that way he wouldn’t have to watch Lewis shrink, dejected, in on himself.

 

“We both know I can’t force you to do anything,” he eventually says. “I mean, when have we ever listened to each other as colleagues, _Christ_.”

 

Neither of them laughs.

 

“But… but as your friend,” Lewis continues. “I’m asking you to think about this, what this means for me and Simon. For you. We can’t keep playing with fire.”

 

“I’m not,” Lalna says. “Not - not this time.”

 

Lewis shakes his head, exhales slowly.

 

“You know I can’t believe you, right?”

 

A beat.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And that I can’t condone this, yes?”

 

God this would be so much _easier_ if they’d kept at each other tooth and nail; he can’t stand Lewis like this, all passive upset Lalna can’t hope to lash out at. Look like a right prick, he would, and he’s already well on his way there.

 

“Yes,” he struggles with an approximate civility, grinds acquiescence through his teeth.

 

A pause troubles the air between them, a to and fro ellipses stretching thin its punctuations. At its frayed length, Lewis grants them both reprieve.

 

“So,” he says, and Lalna anticipates nothing, least of all what comes next.

 

“Why can’t I tell Simon?”

 

“What?” The scientist blinks back to himself, certain he’s misheard.

 

“You fucked him over the first time,” Lewis says with as much zeal as a terms and conditions clause. “Fucked _me_ over. You want to grow my husband again? I want to know why he _can’t_ know.”

 

“I - I - it’s -” Lalna hadn’t much of a grip on his excuses to begin with. Presently, they’ve rather been scattered to hell and back, and nothing comes to mind embellished beyond ‘because he can’t keep his damn mouth shut’.

 

“-and I don’t want Rythian finding out,” he finishes, and feels he should be shocked, ashamed, regretting his blunt admission, but he possesses fewer and fewer faculties for propriety with every waning moment. At this point, he can’t be bloody arsed minding Lewis’s delicate constitution or goddamn _whatever_ will next set him off.

 

Surprisingly, this doesn't, though Lewis spares little insult in his response.

 

“This another ego boost, then, hm?”

 

“I - what?”

 

“Oh come on, Lalna,” he sneers. “I bring up Rythian and suddenly you’re keen on this massive endeavor to grow Simon again? Points for asking permission, but, Christ, you’re more transparent than you take credit for, friend.”

 

“I - that’s fucking ridiculous and you know it,” the scientist snits. “We need options, Lewis. There’s no guarantee he’ll know what to do. I don’t _want_ him knowing what _I’m_ doing, so I don’t get where the hell you got _that_ idea from. This’s the most concrete means to a solution, and you _bloody well_ know it.”

 

“Do I?” Lewis counters severely, closing the distance between them, looming over Lalna as he crowds troublingly close to his person. “Because I sure as shit didn’t consider it before. Never crossed my mind, _friend_.”

 

“Well maybe your opinion isn’t the end all be all, ever think of that?”

 

Lewis throws his head back with a bitter laugh. “You’re really not helping yourself here.”

 

“I’m not gonna suck up to you,” Lalna retorts. “Either you’re with this or you’re not, but quit stringing me along with your what if’s.”

 

“ _If_ you’re trying to convince me,” Lewis spites anyway, “you’re doing a right shit job of it.”

 

Half hysterical, Lalna says, “Actually, I dunno _what_ the hell I’m doing anymore.”

 

“You’re being a bloody idiot, that’s for sure.”

 

“Think we’ve determined that.”

 

They share a look, myriad emotions warring with their identical attempts at stony expressions, only to promptly devolve into despairing laughter because this whole altercation hasn’t been weird enough.

 

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Lewis accuses between gasps. “You really thought I’d be okay letting you clone Simon again after all this fuckin’ _mess_.”

 

“Wait wait,” Lalna catches his breath, half keeled over. “So - so you are or aren’t? I don’t - _Christ_ \- I don’t even know what you _mean_ anymore.”

 

“Neither do I - _fuckin’_ ‘ell.”

 

Lewis groans, chuckles, groans again and drags his hands down his face. “Oh, friend,” he laments, “what have you gotten us into.”

 

“What… what matters is that I get us out of it,” Lalna says, emboldened to speak frankly as Lewis lets down his vindictive guard. “I can’t undo what happened -”

 

“I never said I wanted that,” Lewis interrupts, but Lalna waves a hand to silence him.

 

“Lew, I don’t care how you feel about Honeydew. S’none’a my business, I just want you to know I’m doing my damn best here, and I want your support.”

 

“And my discretion,” Lewis says.

 

“Yes,” Lalna sighs. “Because I’m finicky bastard.”

 

Lewis regards him warily, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Self efface all you like,” he says. “It doesn’t make this any less batshit.”

 

“Doesn’t make it any less plausible, either.”

 

Another wordless cavern excavates the seeming miles between their stubborn vantage points. But where Lewis must see plummeting nothingness, Lalna sees inspiring freefall, as much a chance to catch a buffeting updraft as splat face first in failure, and he’s content to gamble that. Whether Lewis intends to push him or jump alongside… well, that’s a luck of the draw all its own.  

 

“I don’t know,” Lewis says on a tentative murmur. “I… can’t just make up my mind right now.

 

“Let… let’s see what happens with Rythian, first. That’s something we’ve agreed on.”

 

 _Threatened me with more like_ , Lalna wants to say, but swallows his venom to save face, bitter and disappointed as it is.

 

“We’ll take today easy, meanwhile,” Lewis continues. “I’ll get in touch with Rythian, see when he’s available to meet -”

 

“I thought you said Tuesday.”

 

“That was… a vague time frame.”

 

“To make me get my shit together faster?”

 

Lewis shoots a glare. “Not everything’s about you, you know. Maybe he’s not available right when we bloody need him.”

 

“Which is never, in my case,” Lalna points out.

 

“I’ll call him,” Lewis repeats, and Lalna savors his frustration.

 

“And then you’ll have your answer… when exactly?”

 

“When I’m ready,” Lewis says flatly, and the scientist sniffs but adds no further retort.

 

“Well,” he says at length.

 

“Well,” Lewis agrees.

 

Lalna scratches the back of his head, rubs at his sore neck, again awkward sans the pretense of confrontation.

 

“Thanks, uh, for not punching me,” he says.

 

“Oh, I’ll be considering that alongside your proposal, too,” Lewis replies. “Don’t you worry.”

 

“Brilliant.”

 

“Yes, well. You’ve earned it friend.”

 

He can’t tell whether this deserves a laugh, a flinch, or both, so he settles on neither and nothing, jittering his left leg to a mildly frantic pace as he weathers Lewis’s last wave of scrutiny.

 

“Get some sleep,” Lewis eventually tells him. “And please clean this up. You’re letting the bloody place go, you know.”

 

“S’anything I do good enough for you?” Lalna teases, but his exhaustion makes him sound genuinely put out.

 

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Lewis says, and doesn’t, and Lalna scoffs.

 

“Fair enough.”

 

It isn’t. It _bloody_ isn’t, but he’s flagging after the ebb and flow of their fight, so lets Lewis believe what he wants, mutters some half-assed sentiment as he departs the lab, and slides neatly from his chair to the floor, laying prone in the paperwork that amounted to fuck all in the end.

 

Eventually, he musters enough strength to sit upright, then stand, and shuffle his way to the door. He’ll clean up later. Right now he needs to go home, and not to the stark dormitory he has here, either. Real home, his shitty apartment in the west end where the sterility of the lab cannot touch him and Lewis cannot reach him but for by cellphone. And _that_ will be turned off. Home and sleep and no Honeydew or paperwork or Rythian or clones - none of it.

 

It’s the easiest, most gratifying pursuit he’s hunted this month, and a half lucid thrill seizes him as he wends the corridors and elevators to the upper levels, shoves past a band of cloistered testificates in the main atrium, and stumbles his way out into fresh air beyond the public facade of the lab’s front entrance. Pressing a finger to his comm, he connects to Lewis who answers with the audacity of exasperation.

 

“Nothing,” Lalna cuts him off before he can start ranting. “Just letting you know I’m going home. See you Tuesday.”

 

He switches off the earpiece before Lewis can reply and shoves it in his breast pocket, following the motion with his hands, draping them by the thumbs from his trouser pockets as he joins the pedestrian traffic. The lab is notorious for confusing his perception of time, so he’s a tad frustrated with the intern rush, all the youths scurrying about and fetching coffees as if this will prop their foot to the rung of any corporate ladder. Poor bastards stuck in the rat race - well, at least his job is exciting, Lalna can boast as much, though he half ponders the benefits of an assistant, himself, someone beyond the robotic obedience of the testificates.

 

He continues people watching to keep his mind from meandering: just catches the 22 on its second route of the morning, throws himself bodily into a window seat, and vaguely considers the thrum of persons around them. There’s a group of teens giggling to each other, in uniform of the local high school, so Lalna assumes they must have successfully ditched and inwardly commends them. Some old coot glares daggers to the backs of the heads of the wives sat in front of him - them sharing obvious affection in complete ignorance of the asshole behind them. Lalna catches the man’s gaze who jerks his head at the couple and rolls his eyes, seeking camaraderie in his spineless hate. Feeling audacious, Lalna brandishes his middle finger and inflicts a glare just shy of satisfying the general fury simmering in his stomach, and the man shrinks into his seat, muttering something Lalna can’t care less to hear.

 

The stop at Felicity Plaza empties most of the bus, and any other day, Lalna would join the crowd for some light browsing through the market, always did enjoy the clutter of wooden and wicker food and ware vendors amongst the towering heights of the glimmering skyscrapers. Seeing as it is _not_ any other day but this, awful, shitty one, he remains slumped in his seat, and settles into a doze the rest of the forty three minute trip, gaining and losing seatmates who all receive the same amount of disinterest from the scientist.

 

Finally, they hit First and Cherry, and Lalna requests the stop and makes a veritable beeline from the bus. His apartment is a few blocks away, one of the last few brick structures plaguing the city’s not so gradual shift to eco friendly aluminum composites, though it upgraded to a FOB system three months ago, and the usual panic ensues as he raids his pockets for his keycard. Finding it stuffed in his wallet, he slips inside the stark foyer and makes for the stairs, taking two at a time to his fifth floor studio.

 

A fumble with the lock, a trip and stumble to his bedroom, a battle with the blinds to shut out the sun, and then he collapses, face first, onto his bed. The sheets are cool and tacky with the smell of mildew, unwashed since he was last here - which was, Christ, before Honeydew even - but he’s sinking too rapidly into sleep to pay substantial mind at the threat of mold. Shifting about, then, he clutches one of his pillows close against his chest, forever pretending it’s something more solid than down and linen, and drifts seamlessly away into nothingness.

 

When he wakes, hours have lapsed the daytime to dusk, his already rancid tongue to a taste of bitter copper, and his mind to a laborious muddle, several dozen dreams revealing themselves as not so easily dispelled fantasies but instead the realities of the past weeks. As they gain structure, again, and stricture at his every anxiety, what peace he found in sleep dissolves as steadily, nerves rankling anew, thoughts clambering for attention. He might as well have forgone the nap entirely, Jesus Christ. He’s still only half awake, though, trapped in a fugue state of his worries and the bliss of the unconscious, so can do little else but let his brain run amok until he has strength enough to get up and do, well, he’s not quite sure, but it certainly won’t involve anything pleasant. Definitely more coffee, that’s inevitable.

 

So he lays there and endures himself, tries not to focus too hard on any one dialogue, and it works, for the most part, a few words clinging here and there, names and chart readings and the ever pervasive disappointment of it all.

 

And then a snare - a cruel, catching, curl of sharp and shock that pummels the wind from every other concern, all of it worthless bloviation as this single oversight drags him backwards what few paces of progress he had managed.

 

“Oh dammit,” he says quietly, to no one, especially not himself, because when has he _ever_ listened to himself. “Oh God _dammit._ ”

 

He groans and buries his face in his pillow, trying to smother the stupid, _stupid_ stupidity nagging itself to fruition, too easily, too _quickly_ convincing him. Because it makes too much sense to ignore. It’s a base fundamental to every scientific process. Controls. He _needs_ a comparison. He can’t just… go about growing Simon again if he doesn’t know what to expect under other circumstances, with _other_ specimens. And he certainly can’t expect Lewis to go for it on top of everything else.

 

_‘Hey there, I need to test our samples, too, LewLew. We can always fight ourselves to the death if it goes wrong.”_

 

Oh sure, that’ll go over _swimmingly_.

 

Christ, he tries to ignore it, tries to find any other way around it. There has to be another way.

 

He tries _desperately_ not to think.

 

He doesn't try hard enough in the end.


	12. Contemplations (Continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heh,,,, wassap nyall, late as always, also im highkey dissatisfied with this chapter but here we are about 6k, hope it's worth the wait <3
> 
> I should also note, after realizing the whole 'lore' around lalnable, i've elected to change Lalna's general,,, bizz. So he'sjust Lalna Jones now, there was never any grand scheme implication for his prior name, but I thought i should remedy that before i got any hopes up

When Lalna calls, Lewis is in his office, so transfixed by his contemplations of a bottle of unopened Bombay, he almost doesn’t hear the shrill _ting!_ in his ear. His body knows better, though, startling him out of his stupor with a jump, and a half yelped “Wha-?”. His finger swiftly answers the comm on instinct.

 

“ _What_ ,” he barks down the line, and, oh, Lalna’s answering _audacity_ rankles his ire afresh - veritable tinfoil between the teeth.

 

“Nothing,” says the ever brilliant scientist. “Just letting you know I’m going home. See you Tuesday,” and hangs up.

 

There tempts the urge to stand post at the window and see if he can’t just drop the bottle of gin on Lalna’s head as he departs the lab; one of the benefits, Lewis supposes, of his office’s location. However, several factors (wind speed trajectory, general incompetence with long range targets, OSHA) convince him otherwise, and he contents himself to silently loathing everything about the day so far.   

 

At length, he concedes to the regrets of that first morning with Honeydew and stows the gin away, exchanging an impending hangover for a mindless perusal of his email. There’s something from the Valentines, a follow up from the city transit authority, about a half dozen menial inquiries that should have been filtered to lower divisions and not the goddamn CEO. One of those sneaky ads from Serenata Flowers (that spam never seems to catch) tempts his attention ever further from his responsibilities, and he scrutinizes the offered sales and bouquets with laser focus. After all, it has been an age since he’s bought Simon flowers, and they’ve added a new arrangement that he knows Simon would simply adore. Within the moment, he’s placed an order for their biggest vase, complementary truffles included, and he feels marginally better with the expectation of this something special arriving tomorrow.

 

_Or are you just doing this because you plan on selling out your husband’s body to the same idiot who started this whole mess_.

 

And just like that, what little comfort he’d found effectively suffocates itself, his mental dialogue running its poisons amok until he has to bite down on his thumb to keep from screaming in helpless frustration.

 

_I haven’t decided anything,_ he tells himself. _Nothing’s decided. We didn’t agree to anything. We didn’t. I didn’t. None of this is bloody decided!_

 

As his vehemence gains vitriol, his office seems to shrink around him, air stifling his lungs, walls creeping close, threatening to crush him entirely into a panicked singularity. He practically sprints from the room, gasping erratic breaths as he braces hands to knees in the hallway, heart stammering between his ribs, perspiration dampening the hair against his forehead.

 

_Christ what’s going on?_

 

He can only surmise so far as some stress induced panic. And the solution? He needs to get the _fuck_ out - out of the labs, outside to fresh air and more bloody room to _think_ . It’s not until he’s tripped halfway down the stairs of the main entrance that his subconscious better judgement pulls the emergency brakes and recalls him to the fact he’s left Simon and Honeydew in the dark for almost a half hour, now. But then, what the hell is he supposed to tell them? Certainly not the truth. Not… not yet anyway. Because he can’t go through with this, can’t give in to Lalna’s sadistic ego. The idea of siding with _that_ while his unsuspecting friend - his _husband_ for goodness sake - encourages them none the wiser, assumes nothing, _least_ of all the abuse of his very bodily autonomy…

 

“‘Scuse me, you alright?”

 

A hand touches tentatively Lewis’s shoulder, and he jumps nearly a foot only to see some well meaning stranger staring at him, concern and confusion writ across their face. It promptly gives way to surprised recognition.

 

“Uhm - oh! Dr. Xephos! I’m - I’m sorry.”

 

“No no,” Lewis waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks, I’m - yes I’m fine, thank you.”

 

Before the stranger can reply, he turns tail and hurries the rest of the way down the steps to the pavement, head hung, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact with all but the inconsistent rifts in the cement. He’s no celebrity by any stretch, but everyone knows the faces of Yoglabs, and he weathers a fair amount of pedestrian gratitude every time he goes out. It’s the last thing he needs at the moment, but it’s better than his office and Simon’s precious ignorance, his unyielding trust and faith that everything is fine. And, _God_ , Honeydew’s hope…

 

Heart a sinkhole in his chest, Lewis allows the flow of foot traffic to carry him where it wants, focusing only on the clamor of shoes and shopping totes as he keeps his gaze cast downward. At a crossing, he falls into step behind a family of six: four children tagging along after a haggard father as he carries the fifth on his shoulders. The two youngest, a pair of twins, take it upon themselves to practice walking backwards, and Lewis keeps his distance until one of them topples over in a tangle of their own legs. Quite without thinking, he rushes forward to help them up.

 

“M’okay!” They chirp, eagerly grasping Lewis’s hand and wobbling to their feet.

 

“She’s okay!” Agrees the other.

 

“She’s fine,” the father sighs, setting the child on his shoulders down and hoisting the clumsier twin up and over his head. “Seen worse scrapes. But thank you. Winnie, what do you say?”

 

“Thanks!”

 

The one who didn’t fall tugs at Lewis’s shirt sleeve, and he turns to see her offering a bag of pick ‘n’ mix.

 

“Want some?”

 

“Oh, ah, that’s - that’s alright. Thank you.”

 

The girl shrugs, “Okay,” and shoves passed his legs to her father, latching a hand to his and completely ignoring Lewis.

 

“Thanks again,” the man says.

 

“No worries,” Lewis replies, and gives them a head start before resuming his shuffling pace, a faint smile lifting the burden of his frown.

 

While the idea of parenthood scares the hell out of him, what few interactions he’s had with kids never fail to amuse him. Simon, on the other hand, has brought up the possibility of adoption no less than a hundred times since they tied the knot, and Lewis resolves to preface whatever conversation he musters the courage for with this happy little incident.

 

He’s still in no shape or form to head back yet, so continues his aimless wandering, keeping somewhat near the vicinity of the labs but maintaining enough distance that he can’t see its shimmering marble and steel facade that so prettily conceals the turmoils within.

 

Thankfully, there’s plenty to distract him in its environs, and - forever grateful they opted to build outside the concrete jungle of the business district - he eventually finds his way to the nearby community gardens, teeming with volunteer and casual stroller alike. He joins the latter. The gardens, of course, have nothing on the arboretum, but the humble honesty and charity of the project boasts a cheery pride all its own, and he meanders the various plots with a tremulous calm overcoming his residual anxieties.

 

A few new benches have been placed since his last visit, and he snags one between matching pots of flourishing lemon thyme and lavender, taking a moment’s rest and recuperation. In the relative quietude, he pinches a stem off the thyme and presses the tangy, sharp scented leaves to his nose, their aroma a cleansing freshness to the stale air inside his chest. Meanwhile, overhead, the branches of a japanese maple cast rustling silhouettes of their leaves amidst the flittering sunlight just this side of too warm, and Lewis rolls his sleeves to the elbow, relaxing his arms along the breadth of the bench.

 

He stays there a short spell, watches a couple pass by with their very eager spaniel, and then another couple following not so discreetly behind in the apparent hopes that they can pet the dog. They succeed in their mission, and Lewis laughs quietly to himself. Shame he’s allergic, but he can enjoy other’s elations. When the dog enthusiasts go their separate ways, Lewis decides with a heavy sigh he should probably do the same. As much as he’s enjoying everything that isn’t Lalna and the labs and, well, all the problems therein, he can’t bloody well just sit in a garden and hope it figures itself out. He’s glad he took a moment’s reprieve, though; the fresh air has done his head wonders, his temper soothed to an irritable grumble so long, that is, if he doesn’t dwell again on Lalna’s proposal.

 

And why should he have to, anyway? His mind is… well… mostly made up, and it’s not his only option. All of this just came about because he wants to bring another brilliant mind into the foray. There’s no stock in Lalna’s pettiness. None.

 

Surfacing from the mire of his musings, Lewis carries himself less reserved as he stands from the bench and strides out of the garden, nearly fully decided, but then reservation is rarely ironed out to the satisfaction one strives for, and he’s no stranger to sacrifice.

 

Regardless, he hurries back for the labs, footraffic considerably thinner so affording a much faster route than before. In his haste, he hastens to devise an explanation for Simon and Honeydew about his impromptu outing, and as he passes a Sainsbury’s, the perfect excuse presents itself. Making for the store, he pulls out his phone and calls Simon.

 

“Hiya, love,” he says when the line connects. A nervous tremor threatens to expose him, but he swallows hard on the stricture in this throat.

 

“Jeez, Lew, I was gettin’ a bit worried there,” Simon says. “Popped down the lab a bit ago, but y’weren’t there.”

 

“Oh, I, yes, we - we, ehm, finished up discussing and I walked him - uh - walked Lalna out.” Lewis grabs a hand basket as he stumbles his way through his words, and aimlessly wanders the various aisles. “Told him to go home and get some rest. Wanted some fresh air, myself - and then also we’re out of some stuff and -”

 

“You at a shop, then?” Simon interrupts.

 

“Yes!” An older gentleman jumps at the outburst and Lewis mouths an apology before hurrying round the next aisle. “Uh… yes. I’m at Sains.”

 

“Oh perfect, we need ya t’pick up some stuff, this Jaffa cake cake s’lot harder’n I thought.”

 

“The Jaffa cake cake cake?”

 

“Yup. Can skip the next grocery run, too, cuz we’ll be eatin’ this bad boy for bloody weeks.”

 

“Sounds delightfully caloric, dear. What do you need, then?”

 

“Get us ‘bout three more packs’a Jaffas and some icing sugar. And some’a that vanilla Alpro, too. Like the taste better.”

 

“Will do, dear.”

 

“Thanks, angel.”

 

Lewis nibbles his thumb as he scouts out the biscuits, decidedly silent, as is Simon. Until he isn’t.

 

“So uh, how’d…. how’d it go,” he asks, and Lewis’s pulse takes a hurtling swan dive into his stomach.

 

“Uhm what, dear?”

 

“With Lal,” Simon says, as though this really needs clarifying. “He make up his mind about Rythian?”

 

“Oh, um, I - sort, uh, sort of?” Lewis absentmindedly grabs every available pack of Jaffas as he struggles to circumvent the truth. “He, uh, he’s still not keen on it but, but he’s seen sense. For the most part. You know how it is.”

 

It tears his nerves in two to lie like this, but what else can he do? He can’t just rain ruin down on Simon and his Jaffa cake cake. That wouldn’t be right. At least he and Honeydew should be allowed to enjoy the morning.

 

“Well hey! That’s some progress, at least.”

 

“Uh, yeah, yes um…” As Lewis approaches the baking aisle, he glances down at his basket laden with far too many biscuits. “Um, love, how many Jaffa’s d’you say you needed?”

 

“Three should be good. More’s never’n issue, though.”  


“Right,” Lewis says. “Okay, and sugar and soy milk, yeah?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Alright, and can you have a look-see if we’re out of green? Think I used the last of it yesterday.”

 

“Yyyyup, one sec, dear.”

 

A brief interlude of opening cabinets ensues.

 

“Almost out,” Simon confirms.

 

“Ta, love. Oh, does Honeydew need anything?”

 

“Dew!” Simon calls, and Lewis shies from the blaring speakers of his cell. “Lew’s at the store! Y’need anything?”

 

“Dear, why are you yelling?”

 

“Oh, he spilled some batter on his shirt, just off changing real fast. Dew!”

 

Lewis keeps his phone at arms length as Simon continues shouting, in the meantime procuring his tea.

 

“Says he’s fine, Lew.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“You sure, mate!”

 

A pause.

 

“Yeah, he’s sure.”

 

“Well, alright,” Lewis shrugs to himself. “Was, uh, thinking of picking up something special, though. He doesn’t seem to like halloumi I’ve noticed.”

 

“Angel, only you like that trash.”

 

“How’s pork chops then, _dear_.”

 

“Ohhh, yes please.”

 

“Hmph,” Lewis snorts to himself. “Anything else? I’ll be right home after this.”

 

“Nah, think that’s good. And glad to hear things are lookin’ up, cuz this cake sure ain’t.”

 

“Exactly how many layers have you attempted?”

 

“I reserve the right not to answer that,” Simon deadpans, and the last vestiges of Lewis’s frown melt around a chuckle.

 

“I’ll be quick, then, yeah?”

 

“Sounds good, angel.”

 

“Mhm. Love you, see y’inna few.”

 

“Love you, too.”

 

He hangs up and hurries on with the rest of the shopping, much more eager, now, to return home. Because it really is easy after all, so easy to remember where his heart and trust and future lies, and that certainly isn’t with Lalna’s harebrained schemes. Friend or not, nothing compares to Simon and what they have, and Lewis will not, _cannot_ sacrifice that. No. And it’s that simple. Just that. Just no, and he can’t wait to tell Lalna to his face and watch his ego crumble to dust.

 

Spurred by a sort of vindictive cheer, Lewis bustles through self checkout and catches the free city bus just outside the shop. The trip is short, all of ten minutes, but it gives him enough time to relax properly into this new wave of determined emotions, ignoring the bitter specifics in favor of the singular pursuit of Simon’s safety and happiness. He won’t ever divulge Lalna’s proposal; no point in exposing that when he’s just found the right broom to sweep it under the rug. And he won’t indulge it, either. He has plans. He has Rythian and his connections. He has the whole of the labs at his disposal. He has Simon and Honeydew and his own wits about him. And he has hope, which is something Lalna and all his fancy conjectures and test tubes could never emulate.

 

His pulse thrums with anticipation by the time he’s back inside the labs and heading up to the flat. As the elevator delivers him, he’s met with a delightful chaos of banter and the sickly sweet aroma of burnt chocolate.

 

“M’home?” Lewis calls, and the dwarves sat nattering at the island both turn to greet him. Between them sags a mound of something most unfortunate: a teetering pile of biscuit and frosting and parchment paper.

 

“Bout time,” Simon says, bustling over and grabbing three of Lewis’s five bags. “D’ya really havta get more’a these, Lew? We’ve got a thousand already.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on raiding Jaffas, dear.”

 

“Didn’t say you had to buy out the bloody store, yeesh!”

 

“More the merrier?” Honeydew offers, still perched in his seat, too often participating from a distance, it seems.

 

So Lewis offers his best smile.

 

“Exactly, friend,” he says. “Oh, and I got you something special,” he digs out the pork chops and tosses them over.

 

“Haven’t cooked meat in an age, but I’ll give it a go.”

 

“Y’didn’t have to do that,” Honeydew says, a lopsided smile beaming through his beard.

 

“We ain’t strapped, mate,” Simon says. “Hell, if I could be assed doin’ the shopping, we wouldn’t eat like bloody rabbits.”

 

“Your blood pressure will thank you later for that rabbit food,” Lewis counters, and makes to put away the rest of the groceries, keeping the tea out for himself and starting the kettle.

 

“Want some?” He asks.

 

“Nah, we’re good,” answers Simon. “Had some coffee already.”

 

Lewis glances over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in concern.

 

“Don’t worry,” Simon assures. “Went down alone. After I stopped by the lab and all.”

 

“Ah, good,” Lewis nods, and flicks his gaze to Honeydew whose focus remains on the packaged meat in his hands.

 

A horribly embarrassing thought occurs that maybe he was privy to his and Simon’s indulgences last night. But then surely that would have come up earlier, and he was far more present with pleasantries over breakfast. Of course, not an hour goes by in which Lewis doesn’t worry over him some way or another, so it’s more likely he’s reading too far into this. He lets it alone.

 

“Well, I’ll leave you to your cake cake, then,” he says as he pours his tea. “Have some stuff to get done, so I’ll be at my office while.”

 

“Aw, okay, angel. We’ll save you some, yeah?”

 

Lewis casts a derisive eye at the monstrosity on the island and says, “Please do not eat all that yourselves, we have enough medical problems on our hands.”

 

“Fairs,” Simon concedes, and Lewis, tea in hand, kisses his head as he makes again for the elevator.

 

“Can’t promise I won’t be back before lunch. Going to, well, guess I should finally get in touch with Rythian, huh?”

 

“Been stringing the idea along an age, angel,” Simon says.

 

“Best get it over with,” Honeydew adds. “Y’know, now that - that Lalna’s come round to it. I’m… m’bit anxious waiting for something to happen if I’m honest.”

 

“Please do be,” Lewis says, and immediately backpedals over the inadvertent sarcasm. “I - I mean, we’re all trying our best, friend, but - but something will give by week’s end, I promise. Just a… you know, a minor hiccup, this.”

 

Hopping down from his seat, Simon takes Lewis’s hand and dusts a kiss to the back of his wrist. “We get it, Lew,” he says. “No harm, we’re all just on edge, ain’t nothing by it. Now you shoo and do what you gotta and get that nerd bugger on our side and fixin’ this, yeah?”

 

Lewis laughs on a sigh.

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“And the sooner y’do that,” Simon continues, tone taking on an air of devious amusement, “sooner you bring that cute tush back here and make us them chops.”

 

Lewis tries and fails to avoid the smack Simon lands to his backside, succeeding only in spilling tea on himself much to the amusement of his present company.

 

“Ah damn,” Simon laughs. “Sorry, angel.”

 

“Are you?” Lewis grumbles, frowning at the spreading stain on his sleeve, his cheeks warmed to a flush.

 

“Can get y’a change?” Offers Simon. “Can show Dew the gun show meanwhile.”

 

“You’re abhorrent,” Lewis accuses. “And I don’t have time for this, you git.”

 

“Yeah I’m… I’m good, mate,” Honeydew pipes up, similarly red across the nose when Lewis looks his way with relief.

 

“You both just make your bloody silly cake,” Lewis says, turning back to Simon. “I’m going to go be an actual adult about things.”

 

“Sounds boring as ‘ell, you have fun dear.”

 

“I won’t,” grumbles Lewis, but begrudgingly allows Simon to yank him down into a chaste kiss before shuffling his way to the elevator.

 

“Please no more burning chocolate, though,” he calls over his shoulder. “Bloody acrid in here.”

 

“You got it, angel!”

 

He heads straight for his office, determined not to be further distracted - too many important matters at stake, and he can’t risk the moment’s clarity on anything. It’ll just be a simple call for now, anyway. Get in touch with Rythian’s people, set up a meeting. No need for details.

 

His hopes to slip unperturbed into the privacy of the office are quashed, however, as he collides with a rather skulking Torsten approaching him from seemingly nowhere. And again, his tea turns tsunami and drenches the cuff of his already drowned sleeve.

 

“Ah! Mr. Xephos!” Torsten cries, as much startled as Lewis. “Apologeez, apologeez! I did not efen see you”

 

“Don’t, _hm_ , don’t worry about it, doctor,” Lewis says, tone shorn to the bone with frustration, and Torsten grimaces.

 

“I am fery sorry, I - I, vell I vuz needing to discuss zumsing vis you, und -”

 

“Is it terribly pressing?” Lewis asks, speaking more into his mug where he unhappily observes less than half his tea still remaining.

 

“I, um, vell, not - not terribly, I suppose, Mr. Xephos” Torsten stutters. “Just zat, um, I needed to ask you if - if Dr. Jones may haf done zumsing vis ze gradient amplifiers. I wuz doing a routine check of ze magnet system in - in case you ver needing to perform more scans und found -”

 

“Torsten,” Lewis cuts him off with a hand raised, his annoyance surmounting. “Two things, friend. One, why didn’t you approach Lalna _yourself_ regarding this matter? Two, even if your professionalism can’t extend that far, why would you come to me?

 

“You’ve a substantial budget for a reason,” he continues. “You don’t need my approval to replace things, you _know_ this.”

 

“I - I - vell yes, but I -”

 

Amidst Torsten’s bumbling babbles lingers something unsaid - unsaid but uncomfortably implied, and Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose, kneads his fingers out to his eyes, and draws a long, suffering sigh.

 

“Please just be honest with me,” he says. “I have too much on my plate to play twenty questions with you.”

 

Torsten goes quiet with that, eyes darting every which way but never quite settling on Lewis’s. Finally, with much lip chewing and hand wringing, he caves.

 

“I… simply cannot pretend I am not curious, Mr. Xephos,” he says. “Nearly a month I gif you ze privacy you ask, to use my lab as you need, und zen suddenly no more? Just like zat? Can I not at least know vut you ver needing zese scans for? Perhaps I could help you. If you vill pardon me, but I know more about zese technicalities zan you or Dr. Jones, certainly. I could be of use, I am sure, Mr. Xephos.”

 

Nail on the bloody head, and Lewis could grind his teeth to dust with how furiously he clenches his jaw.  

 

“It’s a private matter, Torsten,” he manages. “I told you that.”

 

“Yes, but -”

 

And then a lightbulb excuse shines beacons through the storm of today’s myriad turmoils. The best part? It’s _technically_ not even a lie.

 

“It’s for the Expo,” Lewis says. “And you _know_ that information is privy only to myself, Simon, and Lalna.”

 

Torsten looks as if he’s had the wind knocked from him.

 

“Oh,” he breathes. “I see.”

 

“Do you?” Lewis asks. “Do you get why I can’t tell you? I know it was a bit impromptu, friend, but, hell, so was this development. And I can’t say much for our future needs, but I’ll have in another machine to Lalna’s lab if it bothers you so much.”

 

“No! No no, I am… I am so sorry, Mr. Xephos,” Torsten sighs. “Zis vuz not my place. I sink too much for my own good, zumtimes.”

 

“Evidently,” Lewis says under his breath.

 

And then, “If that’s all, Torsten, I’d like to get on. Some rather important, well, _things_ , I need to do.”

 

“Certainly, of course, Mr. Xephos,” Torsten replies, standing aside, a diminutive speck without his impassioned inquiries.

 

“But haf you seen Dr. Jones at all, Mr. Xephos?” He asks just before Lewis slips into his office. “I really vould like to ask him about ze gradient amplifiers.”

 

“He’s gone home far as I know,” Lewis says. “Worked himself into a zombie the last few days. For our presentation, mind you, if you need any more convincing on the matter.”

 

“No, I belief you, Mr. Xephos,” Torsten says. “I vill… remedy ze matter myself, zen. Again, I am sorry to haf been such a nuisance.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lewis says, and before the doctor can reply, ducks into his office, and slams the door shut.

 

No more delays. He’s remedied Torsten’s prying eye, and now it’s just him, alone, here, with nothing but half a mug of tea and a resolute conviction lining his stomach to lead. And nothing’s gone to plan so far, so why press the issue?

 

He doesn’t, instead strides to his desk, sits ramrod straight, and picks up the phone, and though the number is on speed dial in his contacts, he much prefers the initiative of pressing each individual key, himself. It isn’t until the line connects after three and a half rings that the gravity of the situation settles world weary on his shoulders again, and he puts up no small fight with himself not to hang up on the answering receptionist.

 

Well, that’s the role he ascribes whomsoever picks up as there’s a different voice each time. There’s not much hierarchy over there, more a ragtag klatch of holistic types a bit too taken with their lofty proto-hippie hypotheticals. Rythian’s the least crackpot of the lot, and far more grounded in real science, at least by comparison. The man who answers, however, sounds less than of a similar inclination.

 

“Um… yeah, h’lo?”

 

“Hello,” Lewis echoes curtly. “May I speak with Miss Proasheck, please?”

 

Zoey Proashek, veritable guerrilla environmentalist, Rythian’s right hand, and second in command of “head not entirely in the clouds”, though her enthusiasm as she answers could attest otherwise.

 

“Hiya!” She trills, and then devolves into her usual incoherence. “Ehm, uh, oh uh, who’s this, then?”

 

“Just me,” Lewis says.

 

“Oh hey, Lew! Long time no chat!”

 

“Mm, rather.”

 

“Was actually probably gonna be getting in touch, have this new mycelia strain we just don’t _quite_ have the equipment to handle over here and…”

 

“Exactly how sentient are we talking?” Lewis plays the conversation along, not that she isn’t always amenable, but it doesn’t hurt to butter up where he needs.

 

“Initial readings show somewhere near the functioning capacity of a three month human embryo. So that’s awesome!”

 

“Indeed it is,” Lewis says. “I’ll see what our department over here can swing for you, then.”

 

“You’re the best!”

 

“I try.”

 

A pause.

 

And then, “Pro-obably didn’t wanna just talk to me about fungi, though. Even if they are such fun little guys.”

 

Lewis sighs. “That was hardly funny the first sixty thousand times you’ve told it.”

 

“Yeah, but by maths or something, if I tell it another sixty thousand, it’ll be funnier than ever!”

 

“...Sure, you tell yourself that.”

 

“Just did and I’m convinced.”

 

Lewis can’t help a laugh; oh to be so delightfully exuberant.

 

“But no, you’re right,” he continues. “I - I actually need to set up a time to talk with Rythian.”

 

“Yup, thought as much. He’s been in Cardiff for a while, but should be back -“

 

“Tuesday, right?”

 

“Yyyep,” Zoey says. “He tell you? Wouldn’t tell me what he was up to.”

 

“Oh, nothing specific,” Lewis says. “Just we keep the occasional tabs.”

 

“Ah kay, was about to say… But yeah, will absolutely let him know when he gets back. Any- _uhhhh_ -thing specific? Or is this top secret Yoglabs stuff.”

 

Lewis is grateful she can’t see the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, lets his shoulders slump.

 

“Got it in one, I’m afraid,” he sighs.

 

“Right, I’ll let him know. You can count on me, Lew.”

 

“Thank you, Zoey. And I’ll set up something over here for your… embryo mushrooms. Any particular Testificate you’d like to work with?”

 

“Powell and I usually get along pretty nifty,” Zoey says. “And they know my work.”

 

“I’ll let them know, then.”

 

“You’re a lifesaver, Lew.”

 

“Yes, well,” Lewis shrugs to no one, “least I can do and all that. And - and please do let Rythian know as soon as he’s back. I don’t mean to bombard you all, but this is rather very important.”

 

“Hey no worries, I’ll tackle him the second he quits fielding my texts.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Despite the conversation’s relative ease, Lewis can’t help letting an interlude of awkward silence trouble the formalities of their goodbye, but Zoey saves them in the end.

 

“I’ll have him call you,” she says. “Wednesday at the latest. Is that okay?”

 

“That’s perfect,” Lewis answers. “I - thank you, again.”

 

“Yeah, no prob, least we can do for ya, Lew. Anything else or…?”

 

“No no, that’s about it for now. I should probably pop off, got a million and one things to do.”

 

Zoey laughs. “Boy do I feel that. Talk when we do?”

 

“Mhm,” Lewis hums. “Bye, Zoey.”

 

“By-y-e-e,” she sings down the line, and Lewis can’t quite believe how _bloody_ easy that was.

 

He expected his pulse skyrocketing through the roof, but no such anxiety afflicts him. In fact, he feels calm and reassured for the first time in, well, _weeks_.

 

Eager not to dwell, not to upset the moment - because it’s started and sorted and there’s nothing more he can do until Rythian gets in contact - he buries his attention in his work, scouring every email and forwarding them to their respective departments. Since his impromptu excursion, several dozen more have inundated his inbox, and one in particular, from the Expo chancellor, snags his attention. He skims it, discovers it’s nothing but the updated minutes from the last meeting and a tentative schedule for the next one, and forwards it to Simon. He knows they’ll have to sit down sometime, him and Simon and Lalna and Honeydew, and talk through what this all means for Janus. They can’t just forfeit the Expo, after all, especially not as lead committee members. But there’s time yet, and there’s still more emails.

 

By the time he’s cleared them all, CC’d Zoey in his correspondence with Powell, and initialed half a dozen reports from lower divisions, it’s well past noon, and he’s ravenous, for food and company other than his computer.

 

Quickly, then - before another notification has the chance to ping - he makes from his office and heads back upstairs. It’s a far more forgiving scent he walks in on, though the first attempt at baking still lingers pungent amidst the wafting aroma of vanilla.

 

“You make a real cake, then?” He calls to the figure sat at the bay window. He can’t quite tell who it is until they turn and Honeydew offers a smile.

 

“Yeah, my suggestion,” he says. “Sponge with biscuit decor instead of the base.”

 

“Ah, you brilliant dwarf, you” Lewis commends, and Honeydew hides another smile in his mug of tea.

 

This recalls Lewis to his own still sitting half full in his office, and he detours to the kitchen to start a fresh cup.

 

“Simon about?” He asks as he opens and closes cupboards. He sneaks a peek inside the oven, too, observing four trays of golden batter rising to a perfect fluff.

 

“He went to see if Mandrew might like our first, uh, cake. Not put it to waste and all that. Thought chocolate was bad for dogs, but not that lass, huh?”

 

“Oh gracious, no,” Lewis assures. “Mandrew could eat steel and be perfectly fine. Actually, I think she has.”

 

“S’what Simon said, too.”

 

“Nothing to worry about, then, friend.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Lewis takes his tea to the window and sits beside Honeydew, breathing a tired sigh.

 

“Long morning, huh,” Honeydew says quietly.

 

“Oh, friend,” Lewis shakes his head slowly, “you don’t know the half of it.”

 

“You know you can… talk if you need?”

 

Lewis smiles and takes a long, contemplative sip of his tea

 

“Maybe some other time,” he says. “Bit too much for today.”

 

“Well, offer’s on the table,” Honeydew says.

 

“Same to you, friend,” Lewis replies, and a furrow forms between Honeydew’s brows, but before he can voice a response, the elevator sounds and into the flat bustles Simon.

 

“Ate it all in less than two minutes!” He crows triumphantly, waving an empty platter around. “She’s a right Hoover. Takes after her dad, for sure.”

 

“You take a new spin on doggy style, mate?” Honeydew says, and Simon cackles.

 

“Maybe so, _mate_.”

 

“Disgusting,” Lewis interrupts, somewhat irked he couldn’t just pursue Honeydew’s reticence, but also the topic at hand is rather gross.

 

“Aw c’mon,” Simon drops off the platter in the sink then lounges his way into the living room. “You know if I could have a dog after me own name I’d do it.”

 

Lewis snorts. “There are entire internet forums dedicated to that.”

 

“Ain’t the same, and they’re all freaks.”

 

“Guess I’m one of the same, then, hm?” Lewis says. “With a cur like you.”

 

“Not very nice,” Honeydew grumbles. “Us bein’ the same and all.”

 

“Oh, you’re nothing like him, friend," Lewis reassures. "Don’t worry.”

 

“Yeah, but who gets the kisses between the two’a us?”

 

Lewis immediately resolves to wipe the smug look off Simon’s face, so quickly leans over and dusts a small peck to Honeydew’s cheek.

 

“Him, now,” he says, “if you don’t watch it, love.”

 

“Know what this means, mate?” Simon asks a heavily flushed Honeydew. “One’a us gotta go. Fight to the death for the maiden’s honor!”

 

“I’m no bloody maiden of yours,” Lewis counters.

 

“Right, right. Trophy wife, pardon me.”

 

Simon dances from reach just as Lewis swipes for him, cheeky grin spread out in full. Bless him for it, honestly. And even if it’s founded on all the things he doesn’t know, Lewis would be a fool not to enjoy the bemusement it brings him.

 

“Git,” he accuses. To keep up appearances and all that.

 

“ _Angel_ ,” Simon goads. “Now would you be so kind as to start lunch? Bloody starving here.”

 

“Careful I don’t poison your pork chops,” Lewis says, but rises from the bay window anyway.

 

Honeydew remains sat, red to his ears.

 

“You hungry, friend?” Lewis asks, carefully hiding a laugh in the back of his throat where it still betrays a slight quaver in his words. “Sorry if I just accosted you, then, a bit. Had to prove a point, you know?”

 

“Ain’t no bother,” Honeydew answers, looking everywhere else but up at Lewis. “Lunch sounds good.”

 

“Alright,” Lewis says, and, catching Simom still smiling all shit-eating satisfied with himself, risks inflicting a fresh wave of embarrassment upon a poor unwitting Honeydew, and quickly kisses the top of his head before scurrying to the kitchen.

 

“Sorry, friend,” he whispers to himself, thoroughly amused, and so really rather isn’t.


	13. Marigold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a short one, not feeling too peachy keen about this story anymore but I'm trying to keep at it

He’s sleeping less and less the past few days, and he doesn’t know why. The worst of it is, he can’t even blame the usual anxieties because this is _less_ sleep than he was not getting, already. Or, something to that confusing extent. That night a week or so back, when Xephos mentioned Rythian, seemed his last, least fitful night, and since then it’s been fruitless tossing and turning and a pervasive feeling of emptiness that no amount of pillows or wadded up duvets in the vague form of some bed partner can bring relief to. He tries his best to weather it, but he’s growing more and more exhausted and irritable, and he can only put on so many faces for Simon and Xephos.

 

Their goading certainly doesn’t help matters, and tonight he can’t for the life of him stop the ghost sensations tingling where Xephos kissed him that afternoon. Sure it was only to get a rise out of Simon, but dammit if it hasn’t done the same to himself, and he can’t even decide how he feels about it. Confused, flattered, embarrassed? He smothers his groan in the muffled down of a pillow. And then he tosses it off the bed, shifts on his side, and buries his miserably flushed face in the bundled blanket beside him, wraps an arm around it, pretending it’s something more solid than plush and fabric. He can’t recall a religious affiliation, but he’ll convert right here and now if he can just damn well bloody fall asleep.

 

Miraculously, he catches the last few hours until morning, and he dares let his spirits lift as he dresses and shuffles his way to the kitchen to start tea. While he’s grown partial to the sugary coffees Simon has insisted he sample, nothing beats a nice earl grey, and he can even make Xephos his green while he’s at it. Oh, but does he take sugar? He didn’t see any milk, yesterday, either, but he might not have been paying proper attention? Suddenly a simple cup of tea seems an Olympic feat, and, with a sigh, Honeydew resigns himself to his post at the window, waiting there until Xephos joins him and he can innocuously ask how he takes his tea.

 

The minutes tick, the sun creeps its rays up the city’s looming, glittering heights, and Honeydew sits mostly unthinking and definitely, unduly frustrated. This turns to outright panic when the elevator abruptly dings, and Honeydew whips his head around to see, not the hoped for sight of Simon perhaps returning from an early excursion to the break room, but instead a testificate wobbling their way into the flat, a display of ostentatious orange and yellow flowers held in the vice grip of their too small arms.

 

Frozen in place, Honeydew watches the testificate struggle their way over, and he knows they’re just robots, just mindless worker bees as Xephos explained, but goddamn it’s terrifying anyone else seeing him, especially without Xephos here to field whatever constitutes conversation. As such, he has no clue how to decipher the animated honking the testificate emits when they set the flowers at his feet. They make a few sweeping hand gestures, pointing to the flowers and the elevator and then Honeydew and then the elevator again.

 

“Uhhh… great?” Honeydew squeaks when the testificate quiets down. “Thanks?”

 

The testificate gives a satisfied sounding “hrn!”, turns on their heel, and scurries back toward the elevator. Within the moment, they’re gone, and Honeydew exhales the tremor trapped in his chest. And then he looks down at the flowers. Or, rather, he doesn’t look down because the display is as high as the window seat, and when he hops off it, the tallest spray reaches past his waist. Kneeling down, he finds the vase, hefts the bouquet up, and shuffles it over to the island. His first thought of the veritable florist’s shop shoved into this single, precarious vase is just that, that it’s going to bloody topple if it’s not transferred to, well, a bucket should probably suffice better. His second thought is who the hell these are for, anyway, though he can easily hazard a guess.

 

“Oh, bloody hell that’s a lot bigger than I thought.”

 

Then from the hallway emerges Xephos, sleep mussed and blinking his way to an approximation of wide eyed surprise, and Honeydew’s stomach takes a small dive to his toes as his friend joins his company.

 

“You order out the whole store?” He asks, banter a comfortable ease.

 

“Apparently, friend,” Xephos chuckles. “I really had no idea. Oh jeez, this is not a good vase.”

 

“Nope, tub might be a better idea.”

 

Xephos gives his arm a playful squeeze. “Oh it’s not that bad. Just needs a bit of… dispersing?”

 

“You got a department for that?” Honeydew says, and Xephos laughs.

 

“It’s not _that_ big.”

 

“It _really_ is, Xeph. But sure, c’mon, let’s take care’a this.”

 

With that, Honeydew begins plucking stems from the vase, and Xephos follows his lead.

 

“Oh, I started tea by the way” Honeydew says, putting on a great tone of ‘I have not been puzzling over this at all’. “Wanted to, uh, make yours but… don’t really know how you take it.”

 

“Just plain,” Xephos says plainly, but Honeydew catches him frowning from the corner of his eye.

 

“Hmm… I think they skimped on some,” Xephos says, and rifles through the myriad, millions of stems.

 

“Sunflowers, baby’s breath, gladiolus,” he mutters, and then, “you haven’t seen any marigolds yet?”

 

Honeydew sweeps a hand to the piles of flowers he’s sorted already, not a marigold in sight.

 

“Nope,” he says. “Those’re pretty small, though, right?”

 

“Yes, but, this was supposed to have forty stems.”

 

“Crikey, who’re you tryna impress, mate?”

 

Xephos throws a look Honeydew’s way, and Honeydew holds up his hands.

 

“I’m kidding.”

 

“I know.”

 

A beat.

 

“You gonna call and complain?”

 

Xephos sighs, shrugs, and offers a small smile.

 

“What Simon doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

 

“Cheeky bugger, you gonna lie?”

 

“Have I offended you over marigolds?”

 

Honeydew grins and turns back to the task of sorting blooms.

 

“Just teasing, mate.”

 

“I know.”

 

Their shared silence is manageable, Honeydew focusing on deadheading, Xephos doing the same. Halfway through the bouquet, Xephos takes a tea break, and Honeydew surreptitiously watches his every step of preparation.

 

“Friend, look,” he says when he rejoins Honeydew at the island. He motions at the bundle of flowers in front of Honeydew, ones Honeydew isn’t sparing half the amount of attention to as he had been Xephos’s hands.

 

Blushing, he averts his gaze and notices a single, variegated blossom amidst the clamor of gladiolus he’d been sorting. Picking it up with caution nearer to reverence, he examines the only apparent marigold of the whole bouquet, perfect and velvety vermillion with canary and ruby splashes on its petals.

 

“Hm, so they gypped thirty stems for this fancy bugger, huh?”

 

Chuckling, Xephos takes the seat beside Honeydew and gestures for the flower. Honeydew hands it over and watches his friend examine it with placid amusement.

 

“Seems that way,” he says and continues, “I think we should split this all up into several vases, yeah? But this little guy…”

 

He trails off as he turns to Honeydew, reaches over, and gently tucks the flower into a tuft of curls above his right ear.

 

“Not fair if Simon has all this,” Xephos says as Honeydew’s cheeks turn a shade molten. “Don’t you think?”

 

“I - ah - yeah, Xeph, uh, yeah,” Honeydew swallows his stammer, and Xephos laughs.

 

“You’re just like him, you know?” Xephos says, and then hurries into one of his babbling extrapolations. “I mean, of course, but I mean, I might as well be talking to the silly bugger who could barely get his way through a proposal.”

 

“That bad?” Honeydew squeaks, and winces because, wow, he is being really bloody stupid right now. The both of them, actually. Surely Xeph’s doing this on purpose, to get a rise and all.

 

“Mmmhm,” Xephos hums. “Tease him about it when he’s up. It’s on me. But let’s get these sorted, yeah? I’ll start breakfast after. Eggs if you want them.”

 

Or maybe he’s not goading, after all, and Honeydew really is just this much of a sappy mess. If he can’t remember, there’s no telling, so he’ll just have to suffer it to find out. Still, he’s not sure how many incidents of ‘Xephos decorating his hair with flowers’ he can take.

 

“Sounds good, mate,” he says.

 

“I’ll go raid the glassware, meantime,” Xephos continues. “What would you say, ten vases?”

 

“About,” Honeydew answers.

 

“Excellent,” Xephos hops down from his seat again to go rooting around the cupboards in the kitchen, and then the living room.

 

Honeydew buries his figurative nose back amidst the blooms, though, all the while he works, a faint scent wafts from his right until the marigold brushes soft against his cheek, too heavy even for his thick hair.

 

“Oops! Let me get that friend,” Xephos says, returning with his arms laden.

 

He sets down the vases and mason jars in a cautious clatter before attending to Honeydew. Thankfully, he doesn’t subject Honeydew to further embarrassment, instead placing the flower in a single, standalone vase tinted a lovely purple.

 

A brief trip to the sink, and then he hands it to Honeydew.

 

“For your room, friend, brighten things up if you like.”

 

“Thanks, Xeph,” Honeydew says. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go put it there in case Simon sees and gets jealous.”

 

“He’ll have all this,” Xephos laughs, motioning to the countertop.

 

“Yeah, but I know me,” Honeydew replies.

 

“Ah, very true, friend,” Xephos pats his shoulder affirmatively. “You go on, I’ll start arranging.”

 

Nodding and stifling a smile in his beard, Honeydew slips down from his seat and carries his flower to the guest room, holding the vase with both hands. And then he’s faced with the herculean task of deciding where to put it. The room is a tad small altogether so possesses few proper surfaces - just a stand of drawers, a bedside table, and a tucked away bookshelf stocked with pointless formalities for tomes - yet he cannot decide between them. The drawers are too far away to properly admire the bloom, the desk is surely too close and puts on a pretense of ‘hotel’, and the bookshelf has an awkward slant that runs the risk of the vase slipping off and shattering.

 

For five minutes, Honeydew stands, clutching his flower and dancing opinions between his options, and then it hits him. Duh. Of course. Setting down the vase on the bedside table, he hurries back out to the kitchen.

 

“We have any wax paper?” He asks, and Xephos is blessedly too busy trying to salvage a snapped spray of baby’s breath to inquire beyond a ‘yeah in the proofing drawer’.

 

Retrieving the roll, Honeydew beelines back to his room and tears out a small sheet, next retrieves the thickest read from the bookshelf (some vague anthology of the continental landscapes) and sandwiches in the paper. He carries the book back over to the bed, sits on the edge, and nestles it atop his legs. And now the marigold. He considers popping the head off and just pressing that, but can’t bring himself to decimate the bloom. So he turns it round, examining each petal until he finds the prettiest splay of crimson against the petals’ canvas of yellow, sets the flower vertical on the sheet of wax paper so those petals show facing him, and carefully, _so_ carefully, flips the left facing pages over until the petals give neatly under the weight.

 

With that, Honeydew closes the book entirely and runs his palms over the binding with even pressure. Satisfied, he gives the book a pat, tucks it under his pillow, and hops off his bed. He pauses before making his way back to the kitchen, just to assess the moment, and finds himself soothed, comforted. Surely it’s silly, but he can’t find it in himself to care. It’s a lovely, nice thing to have, a flower from a friend, and he will cherish it, he knows, just as he cherishes everything of Xephos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also flowers have meanings and thats cool i think


	14. I̦͙̳͙͔ṉ̞̳̪̖d̫̱ḙ̥̮̰̹t̗̠̼̱͠e͍͟r̦̤̜̼̹m͓̺͝i̻̜̰n͔̫̝̗̱͇̟a̷̦͚̯t̵̝̰͇̬̙e̼

‘  
The other the other other other other other otheroetherotherothe̵rotheoerhtotherohttheroherhoether?

Would he kiss you? to? tell or

Oh Hush No _w̵̸̡̺̦̬ͣ̃ͤͯͥ͛̇̿ͮͥ_ Fear

heroine do you know? anythesething  
Familiar  
any  
You do  
and heroine  _tell_ or will you suffer the kiss of it

will it be known

so much _time_ to known it if otherwisely not to tell

Who do you miss heroine? I’ll show if you like, kiss I’ll even tell

This other? Here he is here he is hereheisihehrehisheheihshshihhshsissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss  
s͕̻̰̦̠͚͘s͓̝̞̗s̯̗͍̫s͉͍̫͎̳͍̼s͏̟̖̠̞̤̯͖s̪͎͕̬̮͔͝ͅss̞̼̰͝s̵̙̹̜̫͙ͅs͎s͖̱̠͕̳ss҉s҉̝s̵̜̖̯s̯͔s̡̼͍̳̫s͕̠͕̬̻ͅs͈̯̳͖͓͘s͇͕̠̦̳̬s̘̹̫̝̼͍͟s̭͖͍͎͓̮̞͞s̖̻͖s͙͇̠̤̦̤ss̠s̞̜̖̩̙͟s̮͙͉̠͞s̴̖s͝s͖͔͉s̡͓̫̩ͅͅs̘̻s̼s̜̳̝̭s̬͔̰̥̗s̰̯͚s̘̺̞̩̺s͉̻̞̟̲s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔s̵̤͗̚ṡ̫͖̠̺̈̋̉ͭs̭ͩͧ̆̒̂ͭs̅͂̔͂̇͟ş̺̙̯͐̋ͧ̅̔s̈ͧs̛͉͎̤̭͓ͦ͊̇ͣŝ̰̝̪̮ͧ́́͛ș͌ͥ͂s̭̺͗̄s̞̼͙͇̘̐̅̅͡s͇͕̠̃̈́͑s̗̦̺̉ͬ͛ͤ̉͛sͅs̻̻̼͎̟̮ṣ͐ͦ̇̃͑͂s̓͟s̥͈͕̑̾͑̐̑̎͛͞s̯̥͙͞s̢̞͖̻͂ͤs̷͖̖̣͋̓̋̌̾̚s̲̯̰̥͂̏s̵̼͎͕͈͒̚s̟͒̅̍͋ͫs̳̤̥ͧ̾͊s̞̙̝̟̻͎ͣͨs̱̟̯̃̓̿̃͂̑̄s̟̞͚͕ͯ̒̄̉̔s̙̫͓͍͈̹͐̋ͤ̓ͅş̪͚ͦ̈̾̋̓ͨ̾s̴̻̭̘͔͈͕̺͒̌̌̂ͬ̋ṣ̒s̓̊̉̔̓ͪͮ҉̖̻͓s̸͚̟̥̮̟̅̃͊̈́̌s̠̞̳͎̼̹̲̎̂̊̍s̻̯͚̘̭͉͂͂́ͧ̒ͤ͟s͎̤̪̩̏̌̒͟ś͕͇͍̻̮̣͍̓͌͛s̘̤̟̜̟͗͐̾ͣ̕s̷̙̲̣͙̳͊s̓̈́̉҉̠̩͕͈̠͔̫s̡͎ss̜̫͍͕͔̔̎͘ͅs̗̘̹s̵͖̟̓ͫ͑̉ͥͧš̮͍̦̰͖̣̲̽ͫ́̆s̲͉̫͊̚͠s̭̫̫͕̫̮͗ͣ̋̈͋̏s͔͚̦͔

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

’


	15. shift dynamic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert ghost hunters meme here*  
> what a 5 month hiatus? sorry i dont know her

For the millionth time, Simon asks, “You sure yer alright doin’ this?” and this time is met with a proper glower.

 

“I trust Xeph so I trust him,” Honeydew says. “So quit worrying y’bugger, gonna give ourselves a stomach ache.”

 

“If that fry up don’t, _yeesh_ ,” Simon jokes.

 

Lewis has several, curious outlets for his nerves, one of which involves putting on a very convincing impression of “prospective contestant for MasterChef”. This resulted in an overly decadent breakfast before Lewis holed himself up in his office, presumably to correspond with Rythian’s people. Again. One last time; he’s been saying the past two days, and Simon will be well surprised if Rythian doesn’t simply tell him to bugger off for all his pestering. Then again, Lewis hasn’t even spoken directly with Rythian yet; having only just got back to the city he’s fielded any contact regarding business up until today. Simon voiced concern of this to Lewis is several haphazard jests - because Rythian’s always getting himself mixed into something less than impressive or upstanding or what have you. Even if their entire relationship is founded on general underhanded contracts, it still pays to be cautious. And at least they’re bloody getting on with it, yeesh.

 

“Then how’a ‘bout a little visit with our missus,” Simon says. “Been an age since ye’ve been down to Mandrew’s, eh?”

 

“Not really in the mood right now,” Honeydew shrugs, and returns his attention to the book he’s been poring over.

 

They’re in his room, well, the guest room, Dew sat cross legged on the bed, Simon pacing, not for wont of nerves, only he promised to stay with Honeydew until the meeting, and he’s not used to being cooped up for so long. He can’t wait till this all blows over and the two of them can go wander the wilderness around the city and hack into a few mountains. Civility or not, a dwarf’s blood races with the beat of the earth they were born from, and no fancy shmancy science gig can compare.

 

He contents himself to flopping beside Honeydew on the bed and peering over his shoulder. “What’cha readin’ then, matey?”

 

“Nothin’ much,” says Honeydew, and promptly closes the book and tosses it into the mess of his pillows before Simon can glimpse its contents. It’s not like they keep the best of libraries anywhere in the flat, anyway.

 

“So…” Simon swings his legs back and forth over the side of the bed. “We just gonna sit here till Lew gives the okay?”

 

Honeydew shrugs; it’s noncommittal but Simon frowns anyway.

 

“We can pop down the gardens if y’want.”

 

“Eh.”

 

“Girlfriend Island?”

 

Dew shakes his head.

 

“Bloody geez, then, how ‘bout we go toss some Testificates in the lava pit?”

 

“Have you even got one?” Honeydew asks, and Simon snorts.

 

“We could make one.”

 

Honeydew appears to contemplate the suggestion before an easy smile breaks through his beard.

 

“Y’git,” he says, and punches Simon’s shoulder.

 

“Well I’m not about t’do nothing, so let’s think’a _something_.”

 

A beat, and then -

 

“Would love to get out a bit,” Honeydew says, quiet and wistful.

 

Simon sighs. “Promise I’ll talk to Lew about it. We’ll get something together. Hell, there’s a sky tram few blocks down, takes y’right up into the mountains. We go hikin’ up there in the fall, no one else around, it’s a huge trailhead.”

 

“That sounds… real nice, actually,” Honeydew says, and nudges Simons shoulder again, this time with is own. “Thanks, mate.”

 

Simon beams. “Not a problem. But please figure out something to bloody do. I’m dying, Dew, dying of boredom.”

 

“Don’t you have work to do, at all?” Honeydew asks. “Ever?”

 

“Technically, but Lew prefers to handle that. I’m no good with numbers. Did you know we first wanted to get married to skimp on taxes? My bright idea a’course.”

 

Honeydew laughs at that, full and genuine.

 

“Oh, I can believe it alright, bloody hell.”

 

He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, still chuckling.

 

“We’re the worst, ain’t we.”

 

“Lew loves us, think that’s all’at matters, eh?”

 

“Sure, sure,” Honeydew answers, cheeks warmed and eyes bright. “But yeah, let’s do something why don’t we. Gardens sound nice. Torsten not about, is he?”

 

“Know for a fact Lew kicked him out for the day.”

 

As apprehension falters Honeydew’s smile to a wan frown, he quickly adds, “Probably cuz him plus Lal plus Rythian would tear the damn roof down.”

 

Because Simon also knows for a fact that Lalna is still playing petty at Lewis’s attempts to get in contact, knows that he hasn’t been back to the labs since whatever went down Sunday. What little Lewis detailed of the affair has allowed Simon to determine as much that it’s one more wrong step until things really come to blows. It’s aggravating to no end, this tiff and Lewis’s refusal to explain exactly what’s going on, but Simon has never been the type to hurtle headfirst into these interpersonal frays. If Lewis wants to talk it out, he’ll do it on his own time. And if Simon feels Honeydew needs to know something, well, he’ll tell him. This? It’s just more useless worry his clone doesn’t need.

 

“Gardens it is?” He says, chauffeuring the moment to more docile possibilities.

 

“Yeah,” says Honeydew.

 

*

 

One of those bloody mornings, huh, Lewis thinks, his phone ringing again just as he nestles it back in its cradle. Half ten already, and he hasn’t even been able to think about calling Rythian. Zoey said noon, but passing, babbling mention of her own appointment with Powell at 4 has him worried that she might be confusing the times. Not that he’d enjoy the extra hours of stomach wrenching nerves, of course.

 

Either way, the fact remains he’s this close to tossing his phone out the window and wallowing in gin. He settles for gnawing his thumb raw, biting harder and harder as the phone warbles its grating, jeering ring. He stares daggers at each number until finally, blessedly, after five minutes of successive, incessant bleating, the damn thing goes quiet. Without missing a beat, and before anyone else can demand his attention, Lewis snatches it up and hurriedly dials Zoey’s cell (she gave it to him the third time he called yesterday, told him he could just text her, instead). Maybe that was more than just a hint, or she’s busy in her lab, because she doesn't pick up. As the automatic voicemail drolls out instructions, Lewis debates leaving a message, but the tone sounds too soon, so, well, choice made for him.

 

“Zoey! Hi, eh, hello, uh, it’s - it’s me, Lewis, um… again… sorry. Just - just wanting to - uh - last minute check in that we’re - we’re still on for noon. Rythian, I mean. We as in me and Rythian, not - you know, because you said you and Powell are later, you said. Um. Yes. Okay, um, yeah just let me know, yeah? Alright.”

 

Cringing through his hopeless stammering, Lewis hangs up, takes a deep breath, and sets the phone down on his desk. He sits back in his chair, strains to relax his shoulders. His fingers twitch in his lap, so he tries his hand at the emails thronging his inbox, but he can't concentrate on a single correspondence. He sits back again. Just as the tension in his neck brings his shoulders to his ears, the phone trills to life. He snatches it up.

 

Says the rather very bored voice on the other end, “You forgot to tell her it was a landline, Lewis.”

 

Says Lewis, rather very dumbly, “Rythian?”

 

“Yeah,” says Rythian. “Hi. This phone tag is getting annoying.”

 

“Then why have we been, uh, tagging,” Lewis says, floundering, and feels Rythian’s shrug through the phone.

 

“Eh it’s nothing. Some idiot I met in Cardiff I’m trying to prove wrong. Ever heard of the Weston A. Price Foundation?”

 

“The what?” Confused, irritated, Lewis scratches the wounds on his thumb with his forefinger, but it hardly ameliorates his derisive tone.

 

“Rythian, what the hell are you on about.”

 

“Like I said,” Rythian says, nonplussed. “It’s nothing. I’m done with them anyway, and I was just going to call you actually so…”

 

He trails off, and Lewis rushes after, anxious to follow this through properly. Finally.

 

“So… that means we’re all set, then? You’re still coming over, yeah? Noon?”

 

“That’s what Zoey said.”

 

Lewis sighs, his shoulders unpicking the knots in themselves.

 

“Good,” he says, and means it.

 

“You’re really not gonna tell me what’s going on at all?” Rythian continues, and a nervous ache knits back up Lewis’s spine all over again.

 

“Uh, I mean, Zoey - Zoey explained it to you, yeah? Rather very confidential things I can’t - can’t trust unless in person.”

 

Another shrug down the line, Rythian’s voice composed back to boredom.

 

“Sure, I get it.”

 

 _Then why did you ask_ , Lewis thinks bitterly.

 

“Good,” he says instead, and adopts a more authoritative tone. Rythian is, after all, as much his employee. “Noon it is.”

 

“Do I need to bring anything?” Rythian asks.

 

Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose, works his fingers out to his eyes.

 

“An open mind wouldn’t hurt,” he says.

 

A stretch of curious silence and then, “Sure, Lewis.”

 

The line goes dead, and, again, Lewis ventures his sore thumb between his teeth, biting down, hard, yet feeling, strangely, nothing.

 

*

“I’m really sorry, friend.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“I know you’ve been just as patient as the rest of us, and it’s far worse for you I imagine, but -”

 

“Xeph,” Honeydew says, harsher than he intended but Xephos sounds and looks very much like he’s on the brink of a full scale rant. “It’s _fine_ , I get it. You show him round Lal’s stuff and I’ll make tea for when ye get back.”

 

“If he doesn’t make a run for it, first,” Simon says, and Xephos shoots a glare bordering on violent.

 

To mediate the moment, Honeydew chucks a jaffa cake at his doppelganger. With a spray of crumbs, it vaults over one of several flower laden vases in front of Honeydew and lands squarely in Simon's beard. They’re sat at the island with a meager lunch, Xeph having retrieved them from the arboretum, but no one’s really eating. Similarly, they were trying to avoid the subject of their tentative appetites, but with the clock threatening twelve, that’s rather out of the question anymore.

 

“Nice,” Simon chuckles, popping the biscuit into his mouth, and Xephos sighs for the fiftieth time.

 

“I assure you both he sounded perfectly on board,” he says.

 

“Yeah but we ain’t the ones freakin’ it, angel,” Simon says.

 

This back and forth banter continues for several more minutes, Simon and Honeydew alternately consoling Xephos and poking fun, but neither of them can keep up the shtick when Xeph’s comm piece, discarded at the end of the island, blares to life with a shrill _ping!_

 

With a speed disproportionate to his nerves, Xephos snatches up the comm and fits it into his ear, face hardening as he listens and nods to himself.

 

“Okay,” hes says, and nods, “yeah, thanks. Tell him we’ll be right down. Thanks.”

 

He ends the conversation and gestures to Simon.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Are you?” Simon says.

 

“Probably not.”

 

Simon nods solemnly.

 

“How ‘bout you, mate,” he says to Honeydew.

 

“Hope so,” Honeydew says.

 

“Right, let’s get on with it then, yeah?

 

“Oh and,” Simon halts as he rounds the island to take up guard next to Xephos, circling a hand around his. “I’ll leave my comm here, how ‘bout, and, angel, you gimme yours in case I need’ta pep talk this bugger a bit.”

 

“Good idea,” Xephos agrees.

 

Honeydew hasn’t used much by way of the fancy tech available in every corridor of the facility, but he’s seen his friends operate the comms enough that he’s confident he can get a call through when anxiety inevitably gets the better of him.

 

A last moment of awkward silence after the proper exchanges have been made, and then it’s up to Simon to spur them into the action of it.

 

“Right!” He claps his hands. “Let’s get! See ya in a bit, matey, valium in the junk drawer if ye need it.”

 

“ _Simon_ ,” admonishes Xephos, but he’s already been dragged to the elevator, leaving Honeydew to chuckle to himself in their wake.

 

At the very least, he’s not clones with an absolute bore. Hopefully this Rythian character can appreciate that.

 

*

Really, Lalna didn’t know what to expect returning to the labs today.

 

Though this past month has proven itself particularly godawful in myriad ways, he could at least find merit in the excitement of it. He’s had the nine to five before, rote paperwork and bosses so self impressed they all but imploded into a singularity of their own ego. The surprises of Yoglabs keep him on his toes, keep things interesting. Returning to the Labs, however, after days without contacting Lewis or hearing from him in return, after a veritable war between his conscience and his moral obligations as a scientist, a friend, and a similarly self sure prick who would like nothing more than to rub his accomplishments in Rythian and Torsten and Lewis’ faces... After all that, the last thing he wants is a surprise.

 

Technically, it shouldn’t be, and the fact he didn’t assume this would happen is as much his fault as it is Lewis’. What inspired him to think so naively that Lewis wouldn’t break into his lab again, this time with Rythian in tow, he can’t pin down to save his life. Or his reputation. Not that he has one in Rythian’s eyes, and presently those and all others are turned on him as he comes to a stumbling halt in the doorway of his lab, breathless from his sprint down the stairs to avoid anyone who might be lurking at the main elevator bank.

 

Unfortunately, all the someone’s he wanted to avoid are right here. And they look very amused.

 

“Lal!” Lewis effuses through a goading smile. “Good of you to join, didn’t think you were coming in today.”

 

Simon dons a more pitying expression as Lalna folds his arms protectively across chest.

 

“Y’need some coffee, mate?” Simon asks. “We can pop up t’the breakroom if-”

 

“I’m fine,” Lalna says. Like hell he’s gonna let Simon babysit him while Lewis and Rythian laugh behind his back.

 

Discreetly, he notices Honeydew is missing from the group, and half hopes Lewis hasn’t revealed his grand screw up just yet. Maybe there’s time to salvage this before it gets too far out of hand.

 

He has little energy for nuance, though, so cuts right to the chase.

 

“What’ve you told him.”

 

He addresses Lewis, resolved to spare Rythian as little time from his day as he can.

 

Ignoring Lalna’s childish antics, Rythian replies, “I know about Janus.”

 

“And I was just going to explain -” Lewis begins, but Lalna cuts him off.

 

“ _I’m_ going to explain, okay?”

 

Lewis purses his lips in a wan sneer but doesn't retort. Beside him, Rythian looks as inscrutable as ever, chin buried in his turtleneck like it always is, so you can never discern many tells from his mouth. But Lalna knows the cogs are whirring and relishing the situation. He’d do the same if it were Rythian on the receiving end of all this flak, although with a bit more zeal than his monotonous regard.

 

“Go on, then” Lewis says after the moment untenses. “Extrapolate for our colleague, Dr. Jones.”

 

Lalna sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, feels blood burning his cheeks, so he turns on his heel and stalks back toward the lab door.

 

“Well c’mon,” he says when he hears none of them following after. “Might as well start from the bloody beginning.”

 

-

 

Save Simon’s errant nattering, they trek down to Sub 6 without ceremony and arrive similarly unassuming where it all went to shit: that is, lab G. It’s been semi quarantined, nothing biohazardous, of course, just the fried equipment and the difficulty of removing the busted embryonic chamber rendered it an afterthought. Lalna’s been meaning to get some Testificates down here to finish the job, but his clearance still hasn’t been restored, and broaching the topic with Lewis in the midst of the dead-end MRI debacle seemed pretty stupid.

 

As such, it’s a proper state. It takes three tries for Lalna to remember the door’s over-complicated code, and when finally it slides open, it's with a sickly squeal accompanied by a smell of something both parts chemical and organic, and altogether absolutely nauseating.

 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Lewis gags. “I thought we had this place cleaned.”

 

“We did,” Lalna grumbles, breathing behind one hand as he flicks on the lights with the other. He doesn’t dare a step inside. “Must’ve been some reaction with the cleaner and vitro fluid.”

 

“The what?” Rythian says, and doesn’t sound in the least bit curious, but as Lalna looks back, he’s sees the man has buried himself to his nose in his turtleneck.

 

“Vitro fluid,” Lalna repeats, his pride bolstered both by the ridiculous sight of Rythian and the fact he doesn’t know something for once.

 

“I have no idea what that means,” Rythian confirms.

 

“Because Lalna synthesized it, himself,” Lewis cuts in, though his tone denotes little impression with the achievement. Rather, it’s entirely exasperated. “It’s completely unregulated bollocks.”

 

 _Fuck it_ , Lalna thinks, and then says, “Yeah well, it grew Simon’s clone in four months, so…”

 

A decided vitriol seizes the air around the party entire, and between Lalna and Lewis, veritable snaps of electricity burn their matched glares. Lalna knows he’s gone too far, but he’s too tired, too fucking overwhelmed with the crushing realities he’s had to come to terms with to give a damn. He’ll stare Lewis into the ground right now if it comes to it.

 

It doesn’t, of course, and Rythian comes to the rescue of the surmounting tension.

 

“Yeah okay,” he says coolly, and then laughs - actually, _bloody_ , laughs.

 

“Sure, that makes sense,” he continues. “Janus and everything. _Shit_ , Lewis, really?”

 

“ _He_ did nothing,” Lalna says, glowering at Rythian. “It was _my_ research, okay? _I_ did everything.”

 

“Aye, ye sure did,” Simon cuts in, and Rythian snorts.

 

“Mhm,” he agrees. “Congratulations.”

 

It takes every ounce of Lalna’s willpower not to punch him then and there, but Simon swoops in again.

 

“Well, this ain’t really going how we wanted, eh?” He says, and Lalna wonders if he ever gets tired of being the middleman in all this bullshit.

 

Simon continues, “Since you three bugger idiots can’t be civil more’n two seconds yer in the same room together, how 'bout we cool off and leave Lal to it. This place's givin’ me the creeps, anyway.”

 

“Suppose it is time you met Honeydew,” Lewis sighs.

 

“Is that the clone?” Rythian asks, and Lalna delights in the discomfort that overtakes Lewis’s expression. He less so enjoys it reflected on Simon’s face, but he has to have his little victories.

 

“Well… yes, technically,” Lewis winces through his reply. “It’s… it’s a long story.”

 

“Clue him in ‘fore we get up to the flat,” Simon says, and proceeds to shoo both Lewis and Rythian away, gesturing for them to head back to the lift. “Gimme a sec here, but I’ll let Dew know we’re heading up.”

 

“It’s fully cognizant?” Rythian asks, and once more Lalna has the privilege of watching Lewis flinch.

 

Simon shoves them off, though, before Lalna can throw in a sarcastic parting sentiment, then it’s just the two of them, languishing in the wake of Lewis’s distant mumbles and Rythian’s “hm’s”.

 

“That could’ve gone worse,” Lalna says, and attempts to smile at Simon, but he’s met with a stern frown.

 

“Listen, Lal,” he says. “I dunno what’s got you and Lewis at each other’s throats like this. And I know it ain’t Dew, cuz he’s done nothin’ but deal with your pokin’ and proddin’ and cooperated with every damn thing you’ve asked a’him, so whatever it _is_ , you better make it right and stop throwin’ these bloody tantrums, got it?"

 

Lalna makes to retort that Lewis is just as complicit in this, but Simon cuts him off.

 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘ _im_ , too,” Simon jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “But ‘e didn’t start this, so I’m not holdin’ him to the same standard.”

 

Simon’s never one to castigate like this - that’s more Lewis’s area of expertise - so, after a heavy sigh, he softens.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just… I can’t deal with more shit going wrong. Gotta put all our ‘eads together and fix this, yeah?

 

“Yeah,” he agrees with himself and reaches over to give Lalna’s arm a squeeze. “Yeah it’ll be fine. Just you cool down and try an’ - an’ do something about this bloody place, maybe. Can’t say I’m too chuffed with you knowin’ this’s where you had Dew all them months but that’s all in the past, right?”

 

“Sure,” Lalna says, finally finding a word in edgewise. He’s not too bloody chuffed either, but he’s not keen on a row with Simon, too.

 

“Good,” Simon says. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

 

“Make sure you tell _him_ , too,” Lalna says. “Because I can promise you it’s not just me.”

 

Simon sighs and rubs his eye. He shrugs.

 

“Sure,” he says, and then turns on his heel and trods down the hallway.

 

Lalna watches him press a finger to his ear and hears the beginning of his call to Honeydew, but it all fades away as he rejoins Lewis and Rythian and then they all disappear back into the lift.

 

And then it’s just him, alone again with all his thoughts and ideas and the god awful smell from the lab. He should be grateful his interaction with Rythian was cut so drastically short, hell maybe even hopeful Simon and Lewis will get into one of their lover’s tiffs and Lewis’ll get a proper earful. Really, though, his most prominent worry involves none of that. Since opening the lab back up, there’s been one thing clamoring for attention, and now that he’s rid of everyone and can think straight about the implications of it all, only one thing really matters. And it’s that Lab G is out. And if he’s really going through with this - which, after this little scene, he damn well is - then he’s going to have to find another.

 

*

 

Even with the preparatory call, Honeydew is anything but ready, and the soft ding of the arriving elevator makes his pulse leap a mile and then crash land down to his feet. There’s no reason for him to be scared, he knows this, but, realistically, how can he not be. Sure, everything’s felt weirdly normal since the beginning, especially with his strange recollections and ghosts of certainties that haven’t offered explanation or been offered one either. But this is a newness that has every chance for wrongness.

 

The prospective bringer of this feared “wrongness” couldn’t be less of an embodiment of those overblown worries if he tried.

 

Neither Xephos nor Simon bothered to describe Rythian beyond his intellectual merit, and by that standard, Honeydew had anticipated someone a little more… imposing? And well, he is, but only because he’s the first person Honeydew has met beyond his miniscule social sphere here in the labs. But as the shock wears off from being face to face with another person, Honeydew realizes he’s, well, reserved, almost.

 

He’s taller than Xephos, but doesn’t carry himself to the full height of it, standing slightly hunched. His dress is strangely cozy, worn jeans and an oversized knit turtleneck, the collar of which obscures the lower half of his face almost entirely. Salt and pepper hair styled to a tousled attempt at “swept back”, eyes curious but not overtly searching, Honeydew could almost let his guard down. Almost.

 

They’re all stood on the living room, Xephos next to Rythian, and Simon scooted over to Honeydew’s side of things the moment they’d emerged from the lift. Honeydew was relieved by his friend’s presence, but now, as Rythian’s gaze takes on blatant surprise, he half wonders if it was Simon’s intent to show off the true scope of this whole cloning situation. Side by side, they’re certainly a sight.

 

“Jeez,” Rythian finally offers, and cocks his head to one side. “Compliments to Lalna, this is impressive.”

 

“Yes, well,” beside him, Xephos wrings his hands, a concerted effort not to bite at his thumb. “That’s just the short of it, really. Honeydew may - um - may be Simon’s exact clone -”

 

“Except I’m pretty sure I ain’t,” Honeydew pipes up, surprised at his steady cadence what for the wobbling lump forming in the back of his throat.

 

“Oh?” Says Rythian, and glances at Xephos before staring scrutinously at Honeydew.

 

“Yeah uh, I ain’t - I got other memories, sorta,” Honeydew says, and glimpses Xephos open his mouth then promptly shut it.

 

Taking a steadying breath, Honeydew soldiers on explaining, “Started wi’ me pretty much bustin’ outta Lal’s goop tube thing, and then he comes in asking me if I know who I am. And according to him I’m supposed to be Simon Honeydew, but I’m not. It’s just Honeydew. And he brings Xeph in, and I know Xeph, but not like this. Not - not Lewis. I don’t know what other way I know ‘im, just get these - I guess - inklings every so often. But I know that I know. I know me, Honeydew, I know ‘im, Xephos, and… yeah.”

 

He inhales, exhales. Simon clasps a sturdy hand on his shoulder.

 

“An’ that’s me, I guess,” he says, and finds it very hard to meet either Rythian or Xephos’s eye.

 

Thankfully, neither let the moment flounder to silence, Xephos piping up, “We’ve run tests. Mostly MRI's - well - entirelly all MRI's.  _Many_ MRI’s is what I'm getting at. He had… a very bad reaction the first time around.”

 

Simon shivers at the memory, and a dull ache throbs at the nape of his neck. He rubs it away as Xephos continues.

 

“It’s the only thing we’ve had to go off of, really, some sort of brain trauma. But we’ve been at this almost a month now, and we have no answers. We’re - Joakim if I’m honest, we’re desperate here. I have no idea what to do, Lalna hasn’t a clue either...”

 

“And Torsten?” Rythian interrupts. He sounds perfectly nonchalant, which unsettles Honeydew more than anything given the glut of impossible information Xephos has just provided.

 

“Oh he’s well in the dark on this,” Xephos laughs nervously. “He doesn’t even know about Janus. You’re among a privileged few.”

 

“This really screws up your presentation for the Expo then, huh,” Rythian says.

 

“I, well, I mean, that - that hasn’t really taken priority as of late,” Xephos stammers, and throws a stern stare at Simon, though it makes Honeydew shrink all the same.

 

“Yeah uh, we ain’t really been concerned much about that,” Simon says. “Dew here kinda matters a bit more, dont’cha think?”

 

“I mean, sure?” Rythian shrugs. “Honestly, this seems like a whole new opportunity for the project.”

 

“What?” Xephos and Simon say together, and Honeydew’s heart stumbles into the tide of his rising anxiety. This isn’t going at all how he thought. Does Rythian even care?

 

“Sorry, is that not - wait,” Rythian waves his hands as if to dispel the confusion. “So are you concerned about how this is going to affect the Expo or…?”

 

“I - I mean, sure, a bit I suppose,” Xephos says, and his words sound like a leg dragged through a bear trap. “But our main issue is getting Honeydew his memory back.”

 

“Okay, sure,” Rythian says, and Honeydew cautiously lets go of the breath he’d been holding. “But then I guess I don’t really see how I fit into this.”

 

“Conventional approaches aren’t working,” Xephos says. “We need fresh eyes on this, fresh ideas.”

 

“Neuroscience is way beyond my scope, Lewis.”

 

“Surely you have connections.”

 

“Yeah, mate,” Simon pipes up, far more jovially than the severity of the situation requires. “You got yer fingers in all sorts’a weird pies.”

 

Honeydew, meanwhile, has taken to staring at his feet. He’d sworn off expectations about this meeting, but this is turning his stomach to knots.

 

“I mean… yeah, I know some people,” Rythian says. “No one that’ll know much more than Torsten or something but -”

 

“But with your added insights,” Xephos interrupts hopefully, and Honeydew peaks up at his friend to see him staring veritably puppy eyed-pleading at Rythian.

 

“At least let me show you the data we’ve collected,” he continues. “Have a look, see what you make of it.”

 

There’s a long, long pause, and the very room bates its breath.

 

Finally, Rythian answers, “Okay sure.”

 

“Yes, brilliant, thank you,” Xephos sounds like he’s just won the lottery.

 

Simon squeezes Honeydew’s shoulder again. It’s a far less nervous touch.

 

“You - you have time now, yeah?” Xephos continues.

 

Rythian regards Honeydew with a raised eyebrow before turning back to Xephos and replying, “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Excellent - I - thank you, Rythian, thank you I…” Xephos runs a hand through his hair, looks at Honeydew with a hapless smile, then at Rythian. “I promise this isn’t just - you’re right, this matters greatly for the future of Janus, but we’re putting Honeydew first, so this is - yeah, this is very much appreciated, friend.”

 

“Yeah,” Honeydew pipes up, pretending not to be hurt by where he was certain Xephos’s sentence was going. “An’ I’m a pretty cool bloke when y’get to know me.”

 

Rythian gives a small laugh through his nose, a half smile peeking out from the confines of his collar.

 

“Don’t doubt it,” he says.

 

“Well,” Xephos says, sounding breathless in his haste to get on with things.

 

“We should get on with things,” he confirms. “Simon, Dew, you mind staying up here? We'll need to go get those scans from Lal.”

 

“S’no problem,” Simon answers for the both of them, and Honeydew nods along in compliance. “Just don’t take an age, yeah?”

 

“Plans?” Rythian asks.

 

“Just getting through the day,” Xephos jokes, and gives Honeydew a lopsided smile. It’s hard to return.

 

“Well, and I gotta talk to you ‘bout somethin’, too,” Simon says, reaffirming the seriousness of this all.

 

“Sure thing,” Xephos says, and then gestures to Rythian. “You up for another round of Lalna.”

 

“Sure,” Rythian answers.

 

“Oh, and let me get my comm back off you, Simon.”

 

“Yeah, and you take this back,” Honeydew says, passing Simon over his earpiece.

 

The necessary exchanges are completed, then Xephos rejoins Rythian.

 

“Won’t be long,” he says, and then the lift arrives, and then Honeydew is alone with Simon, feeling somewhat robbed of a more concrete hope, or even confidence in Rythian’s whole conduct. Even Xephos’s approach to his attitude has him a bit shaken up in the senses. But perhaps it’s all just the shock of it. This wasn’t ever going to be easy, after all.

 

“Coulda gone worse,” Simon says when he catches Honeydew’s lost expression. “Didn’t remember Ryth bein’ so clinical like that, sorry, mate, it’s nothin’ personal, though.”

 

“Yeah, no, it’s fine.”

 

Simon’s hand returns, another comforting squeeze and a firm pat between his shoulder blades.

 

“Don’t worry, mate, I’m gonna set Lew straight here. We ain’t doin’ nothing till he’s a hundred percent on board with how you feel about all this.”

 

“Aye, thanks,” Honeydew says. “Least you understand.

 

“And, say,” he says, because that was a bit too sappy even for him, and it’d be nice to get off topic. “Wasn’t there supposed to be an eclipse tonight? Xeph mentioned a while back.”

 

“Some romantic stargazing, eh?” Simon gives a wry chuckle and elbows his side. “You tryna make a move on my husband there, pal?”

 

“Well, if yer not careful,” Honeydew replies cheekily, and a warm, genuine laugh finds its way through the mire of nerves still stuck at the back of his throat.

 

It’s a nice feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will actually probably cry if i get feedback js (it's a good cry, a bitch is on shaky ground about this story lmaoooo)


End file.
